


Geralt Whump Week 2020

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Gen, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster of the Week, Mountains, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Temple of Melitele, Toxicity, We love all the whump, Whump, prompts, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: My prompt fills for @geraltwhumpweek on Tumblr!1. Ostracism2.Potions3.Cursed4.Betrayed5.Loneliness6.Monster7.Kaer Morhen
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 254





	1. Ostracism

**Author's Note:**

> I put a tonne of work into writing these guys, so I hope you all enjoy! As always, reviews and kudos mean the world to me so please feel free to let me know any and all thoughts that you have!

So often, Geralt found emptiness where others felt full. It had been this way for as long as he could remember, except for the few vague memories he had of being Visenna’s son before she gave him over to the Law of Surprise. Where humans went to fill themselves to the brim with interaction, the markets and towns, were places Geralt avoided more than he would avoid a plague-ridden burial ground. He wasn’t sure entirely how this habit had started, just that it had become necessary, particularly after Blaviken. Not only did the noise and smell overwhelm his sensitive mind, but people cursed and spat. Called him unnatural, disgusting when he rode into town carrying the head of the beast that would likely have killed them all. They said he was mutant scum, good for nothing but killing and being killed, a shield to keep others safe but not worthy of gratitude.

Normally, this was a nonissue for Geralt. It bothered him a bit, to hear them curse and spit on Roach’s hooves. But he avoided their towns and cities anyways, did exactly as they wanted because it was also beneficial for him. The sensory overload of venturing into a town without absolute necessity was often enough to push him over the edge into the territory of dangerously debilitating migraines. However, it was different when he needed the people who hated him. It did not happen often, most of the time Geralt was capable of patching himself up, caring for his wounds as best he could and then continuing on his way as they healed up on their own. But there were some times when this was simply impossible. And then he had, in the past, relied solely on luck to keep him surviving. Luck, and the fact that he had been told over and over that he was destined for something more than dying in some farmer’s field.

However, Geralt was beginning to question if this was really the truth. Something about the way his blood was soaking the golden wheat around him, dyed almost amber in the sunset, made him feel like this was where he would die. It was almost beautiful, he thought dizzily. There were flies buzzing above him, the sound of their quickly beating wings almost soothing, letting him drift off to sleep. Far above, he could hear carrion birds crowing. That was never a good sign. Carrion birds were intuitive sensors of death. They would never have wasted their energy flying to him unless he was truly dying. 

Rolling on his side, Geralt lazily trailed his finger through his blood, pooling on the ground underneath him. He drew a figure eight in the dirt, and watched as his blood filled the grooves, the same consistency as molasses. The birds crowed, and the insects buzzed, and the sun continued to sink over the horizon. He was reminded of the fact that even if he died here today, which was a considerably likely occurrence, the sun would keep setting. The bugs would keep flying. The birds would fly off after they were done devouring his corpse and go find some other decaying body to gorge themselves on. It was a strangely comforting thought.

Geralt was ripped from his wandering path of thoughts by the feeling of rough hands rolling him on his side. He started with pain and fear. The fact that anyone had managed to come all the way up to him and touch him before he noticed they were there was damnably frightening. Even dying, Geralt had always hoped he would be in complete command of himself until the end. Although, now that he was experiencing it, he realized this was an impossibility. Death conquered all, even Witchers. A small whimper escaped his chest as whoever was rolling him over dug their fingers right into the open, bloody chasm carved into his side. Geralt would have screamed, but he was too weak. The world felt hot and heavy, and he could barely even bring himself to feel concerned as the person lifted him up carelessly. One hand was still half in the wound, using it as a kind of handhold to keep Geralt upright. He groaned again, feeling the hot blood trickling down his sides. As he was dragged away, the dirt of the farmer's field squelched under his boots. It was red and rusty in the sunset. Feeling ill, Geralt swallowed convulsively, feeling the tips of his boots making tiny furrows in the mud. Somewhere along the way, his eyes had drifted shut, even the painful grip not enough to keep him conscious. Vaguely, he heard voices. Gruff, harsh, indistinct. He tried to raise his head, tried to get a faint understanding of what was happening to him, but he was so damnably weak. He'd let himself lose too much blood. If Vesemir had been there, he would have whipped Geralt within an inch of his life for being so careless. 

But Vesemir wasn't here. Geralt was alone, in a strange and inhospitable world, wounded and too weak to even lift his head and see who was taking him. At this point, with most of his blood having seeped out onto the ground, Geralt felt too listless to even care about who it was. Everything was cold. He shivered, clenching his toes and hands in a final, desperate attempt to keep himself from betraying any weakness. A rough, work-worn hand grabbed his chin and yanked it upwards roughly. 

“You’re fucking useless, you know that?” A deep voice grumbled, “We hire you to do one thing. Just kill the fucking rusalkas and leave us in peace, and you can’t even do that. We want you gone, and the sooner you’re able to sit on your horse and get out of here the better.”

Geralt blinked blearily, disliking the way the man was squishing his face in his tight grip. He couldn’t see anything, the blood loss was taking a heavy toll on him, and even if he had been able to understand the man over the roaring in his ears he guessed he wouldn’t have been able to make sense of the words. He was too weak, too tired. He just wanted to be left in peace, to lie down and expire in the dirt.

However, it was not to be. Geralt had a moment’s notice before the man who was holding his face released the tight grip on his chin, causing Geralt’s chin to thump painfully against his sternum. His boots swam in a blurry haze under his feet. Then, he felt strong, thick arms wrapping around his waist, and a rush of air as he was tossed unceremoniously against something hard and wooden. There was a dull thud, and underneath a slightly sickening sound of hot blood dripping onto the boards. The moment Geralt hit the wood, stars swam in front of his eyes and an audible groan escaped his lips. He reached around, trying desperately to find something to anchor himself to, something to hold onto as the world spun dizzyingly around him. His stomach was on fire, and he gasped as he tried to inhale. His head, which had taken quite a knock when he had been thrown, was aching fiercely, his vision tunnelling. Having been unable to find anything solid to grip, anything to anchor him to consciousness or to help him understand what was happening, Geralt allowed himself to slip. Whatever was to become of him, there was nothing he could do about it now anyways.

\----

When next he awoke, Geralt was only aware that whatever he was lying on was jolting horrendously, and that it was probably this jolting that had caused his return to consciousness. His body certainly did not feel ready to be awake. He was covered in his own blood, sticky and hot, and in so much pain that the only way he could draw breath was by leaving his mouth open and taking gasping breaths like a beached fish. There was a vague sound of trotting horses, and men talking and laughing amongst one another. Their voices were harsh, and sounded cruel.

Peeling back his eyelids with considerable difficulty, Geralt was able to make out the green leaves of trees and the bright light of sunlight filtering down between them. He had always loved the dappling of the sunlight on the forest floor, but now even that had been turned into a feverish, painful nightmare. The light passed over him as they moved, so quickly and unpredictably that it completely overwhelmed his sensitive eyes. Feeling nauseous, Geralt tried to lift a hand to rub at his eyes and block out the light, but found that his hands were unable to move. At first, he thought this was due to weakness brought on by blood loss. After all, he was covered in his own blood, sticky and hot and sickening on such a warm day. But when he tried to move again, he heard a rattle and felt the sharp bite of metal against his skin. Whoever had him had bound him tightly, weak though he was.

A horse trotted up next to what Geralt had confusedly determined was a wagon. He couldn’t truly make out the person sitting on it, or the horse for that matter, but the scent of animal and unclean human suddenly became stronger as a brown blob floated into his vision. Under different circumstances, Geralt would have been tempted to laugh at his own weakness. And then probably slap himself upside the head for having been so stupid as to get into this situation in the first place. But thinking was too hard, and all the thoughts he had were disordered and made his head ache even worse. He focused on the stench, but that only made his aching stomach roll.

“I see you’re awake, beast,” a voice, the same one from earlier, sneered down at him, “Best not to move. Monsters can’t be trusted not to lash out, even when they say they’re here to help.”

Geralt blinked up at him, eyes aching, trying to understand what was happening to him. There was a bandage wound tightly around his side, he could feel the itch of the fabric pressing against his skin as the wagon jolted. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why people who so obviously detested him were keeping him alive at all. He allowed his head to bounce on the floor of the cart, hoping perhaps it would knock him out again. Every pebble on the road was agony for his stomach, sliced open as it was. The man must have seen the confused look in his eyes, though. He leaned over off his horse, and Geralt gagged at the stench of his breath — onions and rotting teeth.

“Probably wondering why we’re bothering to save your worthless hide, eh?” The man chortled, breathing hot air all over Geralt’s face, “Not that there’s much to save. But we can’t have a Witcher’s rotten corpse sullying our fields and killing our crops. We’ll heal you up well enough to send you on your way, and then you can go die somewhere far away from here. And take your thrice-damned cursed body with you.”

Ah. So this was one of the places where the myths about Witchers bringing curses and bad luck still persisted. Geralt supposed he should be grateful they were willing to patch him up at all, instead of just dumping his body in a river and hoping he floated away. However, the circumstances were less than ideal. Geralt creased his eyebrows and nodded meekly. He was too weak to fight this right now, and so far they seemed intent on not outrightly harming him, if not exactly being gentle either.

He turned his head to the other side, mostly to escape the man’s fetid breath. There were poplar trees sliding by as the wagon jolted on, each bump withdrawing a small gasp from Geralt’s parted lips. As he watched, the trees began to blur together, turning into a mass of white and brown bark. He couldn’t hear the bugs or carrion birds anymore. Perhaps they had gone off to find someone more determined to die. 

\----

There was no more rest for Geralt all the way back to the village where he had taken the contract. He tried to pick his brain for the name, but came up empty-handed. His thoughts had been reduced to the bare minimum to keep him distracted from the hot pain in his gut. All the way back, his eyes had continuously slid shut, with every rock on the dirt path snapping them back open. He was exhausted, and freezing cold. His body trembled from lack of blood, and every breath hurt. A bed and soft blanket would be more than acceptable right now. And Roach. She was always gentler on him when he collapsed against her neck after an injury. Much gentler than these men, who had taken it upon themselves to spit on and kick at him every time he let out a noise of pain. Geralt couldn’t really hear their jeering anymore, but the kicks hurt, and the spit covered the few parts of him that hadn’t already been soaked with blood. He just wanted some damn peace and sleep.

When the wagon finally rattled to a stop with a jingling of harnesses and whinnying of horses, Geralt realized he hadn’t even noticed when the scenery sliding by him had turned from trees and bushes to the brown of mud brick and timber houses. He blinked, wishing he could lift a hand to rub across his eyes. They were full of sand and dirt from the journey, and ached every time he closed them.

There was a clattering of boots and spurs as the men, Geralt hadn’t been able to count how many, dismounted. Then, the same man who had spoken to Geralt earlier clambered up next to him in the wagon and placed his face uncomfortably close to the Witcher’s. Geralt winced and turned his head away from the hot breath.

“Welcome home, bastard. My wife is waiting to bandage and stitch your wounds, and then you’ll be left alone until you heal. And if you get any ideas with her, know that I will flay you alive and throw you in the river, curses be damned. Do you understand me?”

The man grasped Geralt’s face viciously and pulled it so close to his own that Geralt could feel his stubble brushing up against his cheek. Several answers came to his mind involving the impropriety of his actions, and how his wife would probably be relieved to have an out. However, he dismissed these responses as being unlikely to help and as products of what was probably a burgeoning fever. Normally he had better self-preservation instincts.

“Yes…” he breathed through his teeth, wincing as the cold air passing through them caused them to ache, “Just for fuck’s sake, let me sleep.”

The man cackled obscenely and backhanded Geralt roughly, unlocking the shackles around his arms so he could sling him over his broad shoulder. Then, he trudged inside, all while the other men who had accompanied them back to the village elbowed and jeered at Geralt. He closed his eyes and let his head hang. The blood loss he was experiencing wouldn’t let him do much else. He trembled a bit, although he tried clenching his muscles to keep it under control.

When the man carrying Geralt bounced up the steps to what must have been his home, the Witcher nearly blacked out. He was lying with the injured portion of his stomach digging straight into the man’s shoulder, and with every stair his vision tunnelled a bit more. He could smell what must have been stew cooking inside the house, but his stomach ached at the mere thought of ingesting anything. Vaguely, Geralt wondered if all of his stomach was still inside him. The rusalka had swiped at him with deadly precision, and he had fallen before he was able to truly assess the wound. However, he supposed, he wouldn’t have survived the trip back in the wagon if the rusalka had mortally wounded him. Vesemir had once told him that if he could make it past two hours, he would be almost certain to recover.

Inside the home, Geralt found himself being dropped unceremoniously onto something bouncy that must have been a bed. He would have been grateful for this but for the way the mattress bouncing aggravated his wounds, and the fact that the man had bound his hands to the sides of the bed with what felt like leather horse reins. Not that those would have been likely to restrain him if he had been a bit stronger. Geralt had a feeling that the man knew this, and was doing it more because it was humiliating and pulled at his wounds uncomfortably. He tried not to wince, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but was unsuccessful. 

The house was a cacophony of smells and sounds, and Geralt tried to close his eyes and tune it out as the man stomped out of the room, hollering that he was hungry and wanted dinner. Geralt felt so weak. His legs and arms trembled from a combination of cold and pain. He was still dressed in his blood-soaked shirt and pants, and the blood had congealed into a cold, slippery mass. Geralt felt like he might freeze, and it was all the more torturous because he could feel blankets underneath him. Freezing and miserable and too weak to roll over, Geralt tried to settle for burying his head in the pillow. It was still to noisy and bright in here to sleep, but his mind was sluggish and slow and his thoughts were scattered. Blood loss was not conducive to entering a meditative state, so Geralt had no choice but to curl up and tremble, hoping whoever came to stitch his wounds would have mercy and give him something to help him sleep. Normally, he eschewed opioids. But just this once, it would be a blessing.

\----

It felt like many hours later when the wooden door banged open again. Geralt had long since lost all feeling in his hands; the reins cutting deep into his wrists. He thought he could feel blood dripping onto the floor, which made his heart speed up. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood tonight.

The woman who entered the room had sleek brown hair and big brown eyes. She was wearing a hand-woven dress and flowered apron, although Geralt only acknowledged this as a way of confirming that at least his eyesight had improved since he had been lying in the farmer’s field. She also smelled considerably better than her husband; like stewed meat and dirt. Geralt had always liked the smell of dirt. It reminded him of Vesemir. He shook himself violently, wincing when he realized his attention span was nowhere near what it should be in such a situation.

While Geralt had been reflecting on dirt (another thought that would have made him snort a bit under different circumstances), the woman had seated herself none toi gently on the edge of the bed, jostling Geralt’s abdomen. He wished he could bring up a hand to grip at it, but the reins were too short. She smiled cruelly at him, although her huge eyes widened innocently.

“Dear Witcher,” she simpered, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in a way that made him shiver from something other than the cold, “I’ve been instructed to tend your wounds. And I assure you, that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from bleeding you and sending your horse galloping out of this town with you tied to it. You’re the bastard that couldn’t even save us without getting himself completely butchered. What is the point of you, then?”

Geralt blinked up at her and tried not to squint too much. His eyes were still full of grit and sand, and more than anything he wished she would wipe it away, sew up his wounds, and leave him in peace. Her wide, childlike eyes made his skin crawl.

“Oh, do your poor eyes hurt?” She smiled down at him, “I imagine they do all the time. That’s what happens when you have the devil in your eyes. Surely a little sand won’t hurt after all that.”

Resigning himself to healing that only involved the bare minimum of what he needed to do to survive, Geralt tried to summon some tears in the hope they would wash out the sand. While the ability to cry from emotion had been taken from him during his Trials, tears were still an important defence mechanism used to rid the body of unwanted toxins. But he was so tired, and couldn’t even focus enough to dilate his pupils in the light, let alone wash away the sand from his eyes. He settled in for a miserable time, unsure why he had expected anything else. Humans didn’t willingly offer help to monsters, after all.

“You may call me Tara,” the woman continued as she watched Geralt blink exhaustedly with a toothy smile, “Although I don’t expect you’ll be saying much for quite some time. Those rusalkas really did get the jump on you, no?”

He glared at her, watching as she unpacked some bandages and a wicked-looking needle and thread. She also set a butcher’s knife down on the table beside her other healing things. Geralt wondered what she intended to use it for that would still leave him alive at the end. He twisted a bit, face pinched with the discomfort of his wounds. The dried blood on his skin itched, and he was so weak and tired. A very small part of him that still indulged human emotion missed Eskel. His brother always took good care of him when he was wounded. It had been a long time since Geralt had experienced a tender touch. And, weak with blood loss as he was, he ached for it. He coughed a bit.

Tara seated herself on a short stool next to the bed and began threading what appeared to be a long darning needle with thick black thread. Geralt tried to keep his eyes from rolling back completely in his head. He didn’t feel comfortable passing out while she was in the room, but with every blink he fell closer to sleep, cold though he was.

“Oh! I almost forgot. With all that blood loss, you must be in sore need of water. Perhaps I could get you some…after we’ve stitched your side. I don’t need to keep you comfortable, just make sure you don’t die on my watch.”

That rendered all Geralt’s hopes for a painkilling herbs null and void, then. Clearly, Tara was set on doing this as cruelly and painfully as she possibly could without killing him. Geralt hazily wondered if her hatred of Witchers came simply from the damning legends about his kind, or there was something greater at work. He had never experienced such raw hatred without warrant before.

Using the butcher’s knife, Tara slit Geralt’s shirt down the front, making a disgusted face as she flicked congealed blood off herself. She frowned at the wound underneath.

“Clearly whoever said Witchers are unmatched warriors never saw you fight. I know at least twenty men in the village who could have dodged such an obvious blow.”

“Why didn’t you send one of them to kill the rusalkas, then?” Geralt slurred out before he could stop himself. The blood loss was making him lose all his inhibitions. Tara frowned and pushed hard on his wound, making Geralt groan a bit as stars flashed before his eyes. Once again, he wished he had full movement of his arms, if only to push her away. Somehow, he doubted he was strong enough to push her off at the moment.

“Because they are valuable. They have families, and lives, and feelings. They aren’t tools. They deserve better than to spend their lives hunting beasts. No, that’s work for more…base creatures.”

Geralt found himself no longer able to speak as Tara wiped a cloth roughly along the sides of the long cut in his belly. He had tried to lift his head to see how damaged he was, but his neck quivered and shook, and he had had to abandon the attempt. Now, he floated in a semi-aware state between sleep and wakefulness, in too much pain to drift off but too exhausted to truly pay attention. His eyes fluttered at half mast as Tara finished cleaning the wound with wicked swipes of the cloth and began drawing the sides together to stitch it shut.

“Let’s hope that Witchers’ pain resistance hasn’t been as vastly exaggerated as your fighting abilities. I don’t have any needles smaller than this. Or, if I do, I couldn’t be bothered to find them.”

Geralt tried to open his eyes and summon some version of the glare that normally reduced men to quivering masses, but his eyes stubbornly refused to cooperate. With his luck, he would probably be unable to see her clearly anyways, and end up glaring in an entirely different direction. The sand had moved around in his eyes and was clouding his vision again, and the blood loss-induced weakness wasn’t helping matters. He steeled himself by wrapping his shaking hands around the reins, suppressing another small cough of pain.

With what Geralt was sure was a wicked smile, Tara dug her needle far deeper within the Witcher’s flesh than was strictly necessary and pulled the two sides together with a malicious tug. He clenched his hands around the reins and tried, unsuccessfully to suppress a whimper.

“Oh, does it hurt?” She said with exaggerated false sympathy, “I’m sure it’s nothing for someone as strong and unbeatable as you.”

Geralt tried to focus on his breaths as she continued tugging ruthlessly at his lacerated side. He was exhausted, and eventually drifted back to his half-asleep state as she finished knotting the thick stitches and pulled a bandage uncomfortably tightly around his side.

“There we are. Sweet dreams, Witcher. I’ll be back tomorrow to see if you’re still alive. If you try anything, rest assured you will be shown no mercy, mutant bastard.”

He was sure she was smiling down at him, even though he had lost the ability to open his eyes somewhere during his ordeal. He turned his head tiredly into the sheets. It was impossible to get comfortable — the way they had bound his arms pulled at the haphazard stitches in his side. He could feel the sides of the wound expanding a bit every time he tried to move, stitches straining to hold him together. However, discomfort was something that was all too familiar to Geralt. Letting a breath of pain escape through his clenched teeth, the Witcher turned his head onto a cooler part of the pillow and closed his eyes.

Rest did not find him easily.

\----

Three days later found Geralt, with his wound barely scarred over, bundled up on Roach as she cantered away from the town. Tara and her husband had left him tied up in the barn after it had become clear he was no longer in mortal danger, and they had sent him on his way in the wee hours of the morning by slicing the ropes that bound him and dumping a bucket of ice cold water over his head. He was still suffering a bit from the blood loss — having lost all his potions in the fight with the rusalkas, he would have to replenish his blood supply the normal way. However, it left him uncomfortably cold, and as Roach cantered away he bundled himself deeper into his cloak to ward off the chill morning breeze.

“Come on girl, we just need to collect my swords and then we can get out of this shithole of a town.” His teeth were clenched to keep them from clacking together, and one aching wrist was wrapped around his stomach, which twinged a bit with every step Roach took. He slowed her to a trot as they continued down the road, hoping none of the less superstitious villagers had taken it upon themselves to follow him.

They reached the swamp where the rusalkas had been living as the sun had begun to set. Wrapped up in his cloak and shivering miserably, Geralt was reminded of the sunset when he had been lying in the field not far from here. Briefly, he wondered if he should stop taking contracts in villages where the people were obviously full of hatred for his kind. He had survived this time, but only due to malicious rumours that his flesh was cursed. And he would need to find somewhere a bit more welcoming to hole up for a few days, to make potions and let his stomach heal. He wished he was closer to the Temple of Melitele. Nenneke, despite all her grumbling, always took him in and gave him somewhere warm to sleep. However, he would have preferred to continue on the path unhindered.

Dismounting painfully, Geralt tried to find his swords with as little bending over as possible. Even standing up straight was a bit of a stretch for him at the moment. Roach nosed him gently until he nearly tripped over the hilt of his silver sword, decorated with the jewels from Renfri’s brooch, which gleamed dully in the sun.

“Thanks, Roach,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around his middle as he reached down to collect both swords, wincing a bit as they squelched in the mud, “Probably would’ve spent all evening stumbling around this fucking swamp.”

His attention to detail was also suffering greatly, probably due to a lack of sleep from the uncomfortable position he had been tied up in while staying with Tara and her husband. Not for the first time, he was incredibly grateful for Roach’s intelligence. She always seemed to know precisely how and when she was needed.

“Let’s head a bit further down the road tonight,” Geralt sighed as he heaved himself back into the saddle, strapping his swords behind him to save himself the weight on his shoulders, “I don’t want to camp any closer than this town than I have to, but I’m not sure how much further we should go on.”

Roach turned around and nosed his knee sympathetically, letting a soft breath out through her nose. She kept her pace at a walk, sensing Geralt’s sharp intake of breath whenever her gait shifted. As the sun continued to set, and the Witcher felt his eyes drifting shut, he allowed himself to slowly slump forwards. Tara’s stitches had been woefully placed at best, and they pulled tightly at his skin when he slumped. Sighing and wincing when that hurt as well, Geralt crossed his wrists, raw from the rope that had been used to tie him in the stables, across Roach’s neck. Sensing what her master was about to do, the chestnut mare raised her head a bit to provide a more comfortable rest. With an audible whimper (these were the wilds, and there was no one but the birds around to hear), Geralt collapsed weakly into her neck, cramping hands fisting her main as his stomach ached again. He would just rest his eyes a bit, just for a little longer up the road. There would be no respite in an inn tonight, nowhere to lie down and rest his head, which ached with exhaustion and a residual fever. He was a tool, a killing machine, nothing more. And in these parts, that meant he was undeserving of rest. After all, monsters slept by the side of the road, not in beds or taverns. 

He fell asleep fitfully, brow creased with pain, the spiteful voices of the farmers filling his mind. Butcher, mutant bastard, cursed. An emptiness settled in the pit of his stomach, below the wound he had taken in defence of those people. Roach’s head swayed beneath him. 

He did not truly rest that night, or for many nights to come. Alone, outcast, left to his devices, he lay awake on Roach’s back and blearily watched the trees as they passed him by.


	2. Potions

He should have known from the moment he entered the apothecary’s shop that something was amiss. Normally, a shop of such preclusions had very distinct dominant smells. Sage, chamomile, raspberry leaf. Healing herbs. But when Geralt entered this shop, the smells he was accustomed to experiencing in his own potions were much stronger. Belladonna, monkshood. Herbs that would have been poisonous to humans. Because Geralt was used to smelling them, though, he paid it almost no mind. 

He leaned with both elbows against the counter, tapping his fingers impatiently on the wood. It had been nearly a week since Geralt had run short of Cat and Thunderbolt, and it was beginning to set him on edge. While he knew he was still a formidable opponent without potions, he was nothing if not a prepared man. Going into a fight without all the necessary supplies to make sure he was safe put his teeth on edge. Vesemir had taught him long ago that being a Witcher was a dangerous enough occupation. Being an unprepared Witcher was almost certain to be deadly. So, the first town he had come across that looked big enough to have an apothecary, Geralt had turned Roach off the side road on which they had been travelling and ventured in. 

The town was a dismal affair. The people looked exhausted and miserable, and seemed to move as though they were in a daze, going through the motions. Almost none of them even bothered to look up as Geralt rode through, pulling up the collar of his coat to protect his nose from the stench of shit and rotting hay. Roach’s hooves clopped emptily on the occasional stone in the road. The sky, trees and even the houses were grey. It was a dull affair, and Geralt wanted nothing more than to buy supplies to brew new potions and get as far away from this miserable shithole as was possible. 

And so he waited, rapping his knuckles on the counter, wondering what kind of shopkeeper could expect any business after keeping his patrons waiting for so long. The windows were dingy, and with every tap of Geralt’s foot a good amount of dust rose from the floor. But he had purchased herbs from worse places, and always come out the other end fine. Most apothecaries knew their trade well, no matter how they kept up their shops. Being in the business of providing the ingredients to save people's lives was not forgiving to those who made mistakes. 

Geralt had almost sunk into a meditative state by the time he heard a rustling in the back room of the shop. Shuffling, rasping footsteps approached, and a tiny, hunched man came slowly through the sagging wooden door. Geralt tried not to wrinkle his nose. The man smelled of onions and a foul temper. When he looked up and saw the Witcher, he frowned. However, Geralt was used to less than welcoming receptions, and he was tired from standing for nigh on an hour waiting for the man to make his appearance. He made nothing of it more than that the apothecary was probably feeling his rheumatism particularly acutely that day. Geralt could practically hear his knees creaking from across the counter.

Having prepared a list in advance of what he would need, Geralt simply slid it across the counter to the old man. No use in making small talk when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. The man picked up the list between his thumb and pointer finger and held it at a distance, as though it was diseased. He inspected it through a pair of spectacles so thick that they magnified his eyes nearly to the size of apples. Then he slammed the list back on the counter with impressive force.

“50 ducat. What you want doesn’t come cheap in these parts, Witcher.”

Geralt grumbled. He had hoped not to be forced to pay a ridiculously high premium, but Witchers weren’t exactly welcome in these parts. He had learned long ago that it served him better to just pay up. Slamming the coins down none too gently on the counter, he leaned with his back facing the man, listening to him rummaging around the shop. He wanted nothing more than to be gone from here. There was a lethargic, evil aura about the place that made Geralt simultaneously want to ride hard and fast in the opposite direction and also lie down and fall asleep in the nearest ditch. It was an uncomfortable sensation, and he was not at all enamoured by it.

The apothecary took a leisurely approach to gathering the herbs on Geralt’s list. Several times he stopped and disappeared into the back, sometimes for twenty minutes at a time, leaving nothing but silence in his wake. Geralt tapped the heel of his boot impatiently on the floor. The sun was setting, and he wanted to be as far away from here as possible before night fell and he made camp. 

“I don’t mean to trouble you,” he swallowed back the several more rude ways of phrasing this that his brain had supplied, “But I want to be gone by nightfall. I’ll pay if you can make it quick.”

The man shuffled towards him with a rasping chuckle.

“I’d just finished, but since you offered…” he held out a grubby hand and Geralt dropped another gold ducat into it. He couldn’t afford to wait until the next town to replenish his supplies. The man slid a grubby bag across the table, and Geralt scented the air to make sure all his supplies were there. They smelled bitter and tangy, but the whole shop smelled of old man and onions, so he didn’t put much stock in it. The man glowered and jerked his head at the door.

“My thanks,” he growled as he stalked out the door, hoping he didn’t sound too ungrateful. It was well past nightfall, and Geralt was tired. He wanted nothing more than to have a good rest by a crackling fire. It seemed now, though, that he would be riding several hours into the night to leave this town behind him. Such was life on the Path. Tucking the bag into his saddlebags without a second though, Geralt mounted Roach, apologizing for making her continue into the night. 

As they rode away, the lethargic feel that had surrounded the town eventually left Geralt. The summer air was hot and tangy, full of buzzing insects and small animals rushing through the underbrush. At some point in the night, Geralt fell asleep sitting on Roach’s back.

\----

Several days later found Geralt sitting by a fire, in the midst of a green meadow. He had chosen to camp here for several nights, mainly to brew potions and hunt. The villages in these parts were small, and often if they did have contracts to offer they had no inns or food to give in payment. To try to seek out contracts without plenty of provisions in these parts was as good as sentencing yourself to death by starvation. The meadow was also exceptionally beautiful. Devil’s paintbrush and foxgloves and even some small mountain orchids had managed to find purchase amongst the long grass. A stream burbled through the Eastern corner, fresh from the glacier lake high above. The whole place was alive with birdsong and bees buzzing busily to and fro. It reminded Geralt of Kaer Morhen, and gave him a rare feeling of peace. Not an easy thing to achieve on the Path, so many miles from his brothers and from home.

Several rabbit carcasses were drying out in a nearby tree, ready to be made into jerky. Some bunches of berries and herbs sat nearby. Overall, Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he had had such a productive harvest. All that was left to do was brew more Cat and Thunderbolt, and then he would be on his way to the next town, fully outfitted for several more months on the road. With any luck, these supplies would last him all the way through to the fall, at which point he would begin his journey back to Kaer Morhen. As peaceful as hunting was, it kept him from earning the coin he needed to survive, and as such he tried to take breaks like these as little as possible.

Spreading the herbs he had bought from the strange man over a rock, Geralt proceeded to pluck the leaves from them, skinning the stems and doing what other preparations needed to be completed before he stewed them. Roach watched on, scenting the air occasionally, ears pricked alertly. Briefly, Geralt wondered if she sensed some danger in the air. Normally, she would have spent such a pleasant afternoon napping in the shade. She only every perked her ears like what she was doing now when she was on alert, listening to or sensing something. But, it was highly unlikely, if not outright impossible, that Roach would have sensed some danger that Geralt had not. His senses were more finely attuned than hers, mutated to sense danger in a way few animals could match. Brushing it off, he turned back to his potions, stewing the various ingredients over the small fire. He turned the small hourglass given to him by Vesemir before he had departed Kaer Morhen that first spring; fine tuned to precisely time the brewing of potions, and leaned back against a convenient rock. An acrid smoke rose into the air, and Geralt fanned a bit at his nose to disperse it. It smelled more foul than normal, but he supposed his nose had become accustomed to the sweet smells of the meadow. After the scent of orchids and hot grass, almost everything paled in comparison. He closed his eyes, listening to the buzzing of insects in the tall grass.

After about half an hour, all the sand had slipped to the bottom half of the hourglass, and Geralt stood, stretching his long limbs and rubbing at a sore shoulder. Removing the cauldron from the fire, he divided up the Cat into several small vials, and then did the same with the cauldron of Thunderbolt. Wrinkling his nose, he stowed the vials away quickly, hoping to disperse the smell. He wasn’t eager to ruin such a lovely day with such a horrible stench. Leaning back against the rock again, he allowed the sun to soak into his black shirt and his eyes to slowly sink shut. The air smelled warm and whole. It was infrequent that Geralt allowed himself to relax so much, and he revelled in it. The sun sank lower over the meadow, bathing it in the oranges and pinks of sunset, and Geralt felt fully content and at peace for the first time in months.

\----

When it had finally been time to depart, Geralt had felt strangely loathe to leave the meadow behind him. It was rare he found peace on the Path, and he made a mental note of its location, hoping to return to it on his way back to Kaer Morhen in the fall. Mountain meadows were always beautiful in the fall. And it was always good to find peace before returning to the, albeit welcome, chaos of his brothers at Kaer Morhen for the winter.

He rode for a night and a day before he next found a village that had a contract for him. He had tarried to long in the meadow, and needed to make up for lost time and lost coin now. The first contract he came across was in the village of Aep Carass, offering 100 ducats for some drowners who had taken up residence in a bog outside the village. It wasn’t much, but Geralt hoped it would buy him a bath in the next village with a bathhouse. Bathing in cold mountain streams was never as satisfying as a hot bath in a village.

Ripping the notice off the board outside of Aep Carass, Geralt spurred Roach on without even bothering to enter the town. There was no point in trying to ingratiate himself to the villagers before he had brought them what they wanted. Unsheathing his sword, he used a slipknot to tether Roach to a tree at the edge of the bog, making it easier for her to escape if things should go awry. It was growing dark now, but there were no frogs singing from the marshlands. A sure sign of drowners. Animals, Geralt found, were smarter than people. They knew not to stay where monsters lurked.

Downing a vial of Cat, Geralt slogged off into the swamp. It was deep, and sludgy water seeped in over the top of his boots. The whole place stank of rotting plants and dead wood, and with every step there was a sickly sucking noise, similar to the noise made by an arrowhead being pulled from the body. Surreptitiously, Geralt rubbed at his shoulder. The slurping noise brought back unpleasant memories. However, his mind was quickly diverted to more important things as he felt the telltale signs of toxicity entering his bloodstream. He stopped for a moment, bracing himself against a dead tree as shudders wracked his frame. The tree creaked under his weight. Swallowing convulsively, Geralt straightened and blinked a few times, adjusting to the significantly brightened night. The trees stood out in sharp contrast to a sky that was simultaneously dark and yet as bright as daytime. Squinting a bit, he continued, noting that the mud seemed considerably less of a burden now that he was under the effect of the potion.

As he continued, Geralt also noticed that the trees seemed to stand out in sharper contrast than they normally did, even under the influence of Cat. Colours (such as they were in such a dank place) were almost blinding, and they had begun to bleed together a bit. Geralt’s head ached, his eyes smarting at the overstimulation. However, it had been a while since he had last allowed his toxicity to reach such a high point. He paid it no mind, continuing on, mind set on one task and that task alone.

\----

The drowners, as always, came when Geralt was just beginning to let his guard down, just beginning to wonder if there was perhaps an entirely different reason for the overwhelmingly acrid stench and absence of life in the bog. Then, like demons released from Hell, they came shooting out of the fog like quarrels from a crossbow. He barely had time to raise his sword and knock the first one out of the way. It let out a wet hissing noise, and crawled towards him on all fours, stopped only when he drove his silver sword through its skull. It twitched a bit as he pulled the blade back out. Shaking his head to ward off the dizziness he attributed to rising from a crouching position too quickly, Geralt turned, sword and silver dagger raised, and faced the other four drowners.

\----

Geralt found that Cat often made him lose time. After the fight, he would often be unable to recount the specific details, or even how long it had taken him to kill all the beasts in question. In addition to heightening his already mutated senses, Cat made him single-minded, a killing machine. That was one of the many reasons Geralt disliked it so.

This time, however, he came back to himself gasping and soaking wet, and he knew something must have gone wrong. Cat never made him lose consciousness. But he didn’t remember taking an injury or hit to the head during the battle with the drowners either. Raising his head, Geralt saw their corpses strewn around him. He must have killed them all, then. Carefully, he moved all his joints, triaging himself to make sure nothing was broken and the pain just hadn’t set in yet. There was nothing. No pain. Just an overwhelming disorientation and dizziness. Bracing himself on a conveniently placed tree branch, Geralt tried to stand, and promptly fell to his knees, groaning.

The moment there had been even a slight change in altitude, stars had exploded in front of his vision, and the weight of his armour and clothes felt impossibly heavy. His soft cotton shirt scratched at his skin. Every time he tried to breathe in through his nose, the scent of the bog was enough to make him gag. And still, he had no idea what had happened.

Closing his eyes to block out the offensive early morning light and grabbing a drowner head as proof of his kill, Geralt stumbled his way back to where he knew he had left Roach, finding his way on scent alone. He had to stop several times along the way to vomit, and by the time he reached her he was wet, trembling, and miserable.

She nosed him sympathetically, giving him a hard enough shove on the shoulder that he sank down to his knees, leaning his aching forehead into one of her finely built legs. His shaking hands managed to find the loose end of the slipknot and set her free, at which point he curled over on his side, heaving and trying to ignore the horrific cramps that had taken up residence in his abdomen. Perhaps, if he died, Roach would find a good owner in the town. A farmer, who wouldn’t work her too hard, give her lots of apples.

As if sensing his thoughts, the mare leaned down and blew hot air directly onto his face. If she could talk, Geralt thought she would probably be telling him not to be so dramatic. Groaning as the muscles in his body spasmed and continuing to keep his eyes closed, Geralt felt his way up her side, instinctively grabbing the pommel of the saddle and pulling himself up weakly. For a moment, he allowed himself to lie sideways over her saddle before the overwhelming urge to vomit made him pull himself upright and lean over. Roach waited patiently until he was done, and then nosed him before she started walking back to the village, as if to give him a warning that she was about to start moving.

“No,” he rasped, pulling on her reins, “We’re camping tonight. Can’t risk going into town like this.”

Geralt had seen the black veins in his hands and knew he was still at peak toxicity. No alderman would ever receive him while he looked like this, let alone pay him what he was owed. Hazily, as his head dropped forwards with exhaustion, he wondered why he was still experiencing any effects of toxicity at all. Cat, while effective, was a short-lived potion. He should have been recovered by now. 

Roach’s slow gait eventually lulled him almost asleep, although every once in a while he would awaken with a start when he started to slide out of her saddle. He had to stop twice to vomit in the ditch at the side of the road, and his stomach muscles were cramping fiercely. Eventually, he realized he could go on no further that night. The chill breeze was making him tremble, and he could feel a fever brewing under his skin. Not to mention he had exhausted himself from being ill.

Roach came to a stop before Geralt even had a chance to pull on her reins, coming up against a poplar tree. Gratefully, Geralt placed his hands on the smooth bark and used the stability of the tree to help him descend. His legs buckled as soon as he hit the ground, and he only managed to catch himself on his arms, gasping miserably. Roach snorted above him, concerned.

“M’alright,” he slurred, “Just a bit dizzy…”

Feeling his eyes going crossed with the effort of focusing, Geralt leaned back against the tree. He was shivering convulsively now, despite the summer heat, and he began to wish desperately for a blanket. Unfortunately, all his bedding was still on Roach’s back, which at the moment seemed more inaccessible than swimming to the Skelligan Isles. He allowed himself a small whimper, and placed a hand on Roach’s soft chest. She was so warm.

“I’m sorry…” he breathed up at her, “Don’t think I’ll be able…to untack you tonight.”

Roach blew softly and her bending knees swam blearily into focus. Sighing with relief, Geralt half-crawled into the hollow made by her front and back legs, shivering miserably and swallowing convulsively. She lay her head down on the ground with a soft thump, and Geralt lay his aching head against her lungs, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart and breathing, trying to match it. Every fifteen minutes or so, he would have to turn away to vomit black bile, but at this point he was too ill to be concerned. Shapes and colours danced in front of his closed eyes, and he barely even recognized that he was becoming delirious. Every time he rolled back to Roach’s warmth, she would nose him concernedly, and he would cup his hand over her nose, feeling its velvety softness. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so miserable, and there was a small part of him that was desperately afraid.

\----

The following morning dawned clear and bright, much to Geralt’s chagrin. His eyes ached even before he opened them; the faint redness on the back of his eyelids more than enough to cause a massive headache. He was still shivering and feverish, but he recognized Roach’s distinctive scent underneath him, and felt comforted by it. However, as soon as he tried to roll over, his stomach cramped and he found himself heaving onto the forest floor without any real realization that it had even been about to happen. His eyes wrenched open at the force of the vomiting, and immediately his headache increased from painful to a blistering migraine.

“Fuck…Roach,” he panted, curling back into her for warmth, “What the fuck happened to me?”

Roach just kept nosing at him tenderly, breathing her sweet, hot breath over his flushed cheeks. Clearly, she sensed him leaning into the warmth. He panted for a while, trying to get his bearings. Wanting some water, he reached for the saddlebags still attached to Roach’s back, only to discover that his hands were trembling too much to unclasp the buckles. There were downsides to travelling alone, he though miserably as he curled back up, resting a shaky arm over his pounding head.

For most of the morning, Geralt drifted in and out of hazy consciousness. Smells and colours were so bright, and occasionally when he opened his eyes he would see things he knew couldn’t be there. Once, he even felt Visenna’s cool hand touching his cheek and murmuring soothing nonsense. He batted her away, grumbling. His whole body shook, and he could feel his muscles cramping under the fever. If he recovered, he knew he was in for a very sore few days. 

It wasn’t until the afternoon that he was finally able to sit up a little bit, ripping off a bit of his already ruined shirt to make a blindfold. His eyes were still far too sensitive to the light. Embarrassed by his own weakness (his forearms trembled under his weight), he managed to raise himself into a crouched over position and fumbled with the buckles on his saddlebag. He was relieved to discover his hands were a bit more steady, and he managed to open the bag and retrieve his water skin. The simple act of slumping over Roach had him gasping in exhaustion. Every muscle in Geralt’s body was achy and convulsing with every movement. His ripped shirt and pants were soaked with sweat. Trembling and in pain, he sank back against Roach’s warm flank and curled up. He already regretted drinking so much water so suddenly, his stomach was cramping and turning. Geralt barely made it fifteen minutes before he was back on his hands and knees heaving up the water all over the soft mulch of the forest floor. Groaning, he sank down, head resting on his fists, unable to even make it back to Roach. He trembled harder, overcome with cold. Eventually, his eyes drifted shut as he listlessly watched a line of ants crawl by him in the dirt. 

\----

The next time Geralt woke up, the sun had set again, and he was boiling hot and drenched in his own sweat. Miserably, he peeled himself off the forest floor, raising a shaking hand to brush off some pine needles that had somehow managed to lodge themselves in his cheek. He felt a bit less ill now; his stomach was no longer cramping quite as badly. However, he was still fevered and very, very weak. He didn't managed to get further than his elbows before collapsing headfirst back onto the dirt again, gasping breaths coming between his lips. Roach must have stood up while he was sleeping; she approached him and nosed his hair worriedly. 

“‘M alright. Just need...to rest.”

He rolled on his back and lazily petted her nose. She nibbled at his fingers a bit and then meandered off, probably to find some grass. Sighing exhaustedly, Geralt realized he probably should get up as well, if only to drink some water and take White Honey, now that he was feeling more up to it. He didn't understand exactly what had happened, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with his recently brewed potions. His reaction had been too similar to what happened when he took too many potions, and the whole shop had smelled far too strongly of poisonous herbs. If he had to guess, Geralt suspected the man had given him concentrated versions of the herbs he had asked for. If his intention had been to kill the Witcher, Geralt grimly reflected that he had nearly succeeded. He felt absolutely miserable. 

Willing his legs not to give out underneath him, Geralt braced himself against a nearby tree and stood. Trembling like a newborn colt, he took a shaky step forwards, and almost collapsed, stumbling back against the tree just in time. He sank down, panting, swallowing back vomit.

“Roach…could use a little help.”

She approached and positioned herself next to him. Of all the horses Geralt had had over the years, she was by far the most intuitive. He had hardly even needed to train her to kneel to let him mount when he was injured, or to bow her head to offer support. A relief, when he had no other option. Clinging to her side, he unbuckled the saddlebag again, and swallowed the White Honey convulsively, willing himself to keep it down long enough for the herbs to take effect. Then, he sank back down against the tree, dragging a blanket that had been rolled up on the back of the saddle with him. He was relieved he had been strong enough to get it off at all. Comedowns from potions like Cat were always weakening, and with concentrated herbs part of Geralt was surprised he had lived through the night at all. Shivering, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and groaned a bit as he felt the White Honey burning through his blood, cleansing him of the toxicity. It was painful; every nerve ending and capillary on fire. He closed his eyes and leaned back to rest against the tree, unable to do anything other than let the potions run their course.

\----

After two days in the wild recovering from the fever and general weakness, Geralt was finally able to haul himself back up on Roach long enough to make it back to Aep Carass. He allowed his head to hang miserably until he was within sight of the city’s walls, and then he did his best to sit up and act like there was nothing amiss. He was still very weak, but there were far too many villages that would take advantage of a weak Witcher. All he needed was his coin, and then he could subside into the wilderness for several days to sleep.

The moment he rode under the gate with the drowner’s head tied to the side of his saddle, a tall man with dirty brown hair and a long brown coat stepped out from the sally port.

“You a Witcher?” He asked, squinting up at Geralt. Geralt couldn’t tell if he looked suspicious, or if it was merely the sun beating down on his eyes.

“Yes. Killed a nest of drowners in the marsh outside town. I’ll take what I’m owed.”

The man’s face sagged, and he looked very relieved.

“Many thanks, sir. They’ve been plaguing us for months, carrying off stray children that wander into the marsh. We didn’t dare go after them on our own. I’ll fetch your coin straightaway.”

Then, the man stopped and looked more closely at Geralt.

“If you don’t mind me saying, you look like death warmed up. Did they injure you?”

Geralt shook his head, but the tremors still wracking his frame rather gave him away, as did his pallor, complete with feverish red dots on his otherwise ghostly cheeks.

“Good Gods, man, did you really expect us to let you travel off in such a state? For fuck’s sake, if you were injured in our defence, the least we can do is offer you a place to recover. Come, I’m the captain of the guard, I’ll find you an extra room in the barracks. Should I fetch you a healer?”

Geralt blinked, utterly bemused by this development. Villagers were supposed to spit at him and send him on his way after paying him half of what he was owed. Not find him healers and places to rest. He shook his head, feeling rather dazed.

“Just need some rest. It’s been a long few nights.”

“I can see that,” the man looked a bit grim as he took in Geralt’s appearance, “I’ll get you some new clothes as well. I don’t know how you’re expecting yourself to heal wandering around the countryside in ripped up rags.”

He beckoned Geralt forwards, and even offered him a shoulder to lean on when they stopped in front of the barracks. Too exhausted to argue, and trembling from his short ride, Geralt slung his arm over the other man’s shoulder with a poorly veiled groan of relief. 

“I’ll have someone see to your horse, don’t worry.” The captain caught Geralt’s brief glance over his shoulder at Roach. After spending several days fully tacked in the middle of a bog, he rather felt she deserved it. Nodding tiredly, Geralt allowed his head to slowly sink onto his chest, leaning more and more on the other man as they ascended the outer staircase of the barracks. By the time they reached the first floor and the captain had half dragged Geralt to a room, he was so exhausted and trembly he could barely keep his eyes open, let alone think straight. With a relieved sigh, he sank down onto the bed and allowed the man to cover him with a warm blanket. The world tunnelled around him, bleeding together as it had once before in the marsh, only this time far more comfortably and predictably. Someone sat him up briefly to feed him some water, and he took it without complaint. Then, turning his head into the pillow and burrowing under the warmth of the blankets, Geralt curled up and closed his eyes. A small part of his brain silently vowed to always collect his own herbs from now on, reprimanding him for ever having been such a damn fool in the first place. Then, warm and comfortable, he fell into a deep rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed reading! I always appreciate feedback so feel free to drop any comments or whatnot your heart may desire!


	3. Cursed

Nenneke had a tendency to fuss too much, Geralt thought. That and her determination to reprimand the Witcher for is complete and utter lack of self preservation (Nenneke’s words, not Geralt’s) made for an interesting dynamic whenever Geralt visited this sisters of Melitele. Usually, these visits were more out of necessity than anything, which would only add to Nenneke’s consternation. However, it was usually when Nenneke stopped her fussing and reprimanding that Geralt allowed himself to feel truly concerned. When she was expressing her displeasure, it meant he was on the mend. But when her eyebrows creased and she breathed heavily through her nose (Geralt had plenty of experience being on the receiving end of the faces she made while trying to perform a difficult procedure), that was when he really allowed himself to feel concerned.

This was one of those times, Geralt reflected. He was sitting against the damp, warm wall of the hot spring caves under the temple. Nenneke was staring at him, deep in thought. He was braced, waiting for the next bout of whatever the hell was assaulting him to occur. His hands slipped on the rough surface of the rock-hewn bench.

“When did this start happening?” Nenneke broke the silence, kneeling down by the nearly healed cut on Geralt’s calf. It had been shallow, barely worth bandaging. But that was when everything had started.

“I was on a contract in Velen. Hunting a werewolf. I must have cut myself as I was travelling through the woods to get to its cave. I didn’t notice it happen.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Nenneke sighed, frustrated. Geralt gave her a look.

“Tell me again how it happens? I’d rather not wait to find out, based on the very few details you’ve given me.”

Geralt shrugged and let his head fall into his hand. He was absolutely exhausted; nothing sounded better at the moment than being left to take his bath in peace and then curling up in a warm bed upstairs. Nenneke was only trying to help, but he had endured an exhausting week trying to make it to the temple at all. He felt guilt taking out all his ill temper on her.

“It happens unexpectedly,” he began, talking through his hand, hoping Nenneke could still hear him, “I’ll be going about my day, and all of a sudden there’s a pain in my shoulder, or my leg. At first it’ll be manageable, but in a few minutes it spreads to my whole body. Sometimes I can’t move for a while. Eventually I black out, and wake up hours later. It doesn’t happen on a schedule. Just randomly. Like someone is choosing their moment to attack me. It’s a damned inconvenience.”

“Geralt, you are the only person I know who would call sudden onset excruciating pain an inconvenience,” Nenneke snorted a bit, although the crease in her eyebrows was still prominent, “Have you been seeing things? Hallucinating?”

Geralt shook his head and slumped back bonelessly against the wall of the cavern. He was starting to shiver.

“Here, get in the water,” Nenneke offered him an arm and helped him to his feet, watching carefully as he limped over and lowered himself awkwardly into the pool, “That leg, is it still giving you trouble? It’s nearly healed, it shouldn’t be causing enough pain to make you limp.”

Subsiding into the steaming water with a sigh, Geralt nodded again.

“I know. It was nearly better, and then it started bothering me yesterday when I was travelling. Maybe I nicked it on something. I’m not sure.”

Nenneke raised her eyebrow, unconvinced, and Geralt knew his body well enough that he was inclined to agree with her. Bumping a nearly healed wound accidentally would not be enough to cause such a relapse in pain.

“Take your bath. When you’re done, come see me in your room. I want to have a better look at that leg.”

Geralt sunk into the water up to his chin, and had almost nodded off when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder. Starting, he looked up to find Nenneke still standing over him.

“On second thought,” she said worriedly, “I’ll send someone down to wake you in a bit. I don’t want you turning into a prune on top of everything else. Can I trust you not to drown while you’re alone?”

“I’ll wake before I do.” Geralt grunted under his breath, wanting to subside back into sleep. Nenneke nodded and left the room with a soft swishing of white robes on the stone floor. Exhausted, Geralt sank back, letting the water and steam swirl around his face. Whatever was happening to his body was draining him, and nothing was helping. At first, he had thought it was just a muscle spasm, or an accidental reaction to high toxicity levels. But he had tried White Honey, tried resting. Nothing had helped, and he couldn’t continue travelling on the Path like this. Not when he was threatened with the possibility of keeling over in agony at any second. Although outwardly he tried to remain nonchalant, there was a deep pit of fear gnawing at his insides. Being a Witcher was all he knew. If he couldn’t fight anymore, he had no idea what he would do with himself. And an incapacitated Witcher was as good as a dead one. 

Sighing, he let his eyes slip shut. Perhaps a little rest would do him good. He always felt better in the mornings, at least he did if his rest hadn’t been disturbed by the pain. Hoping to be functional enough to understand what Nenneke was doing when he saw her after, Geralt closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. His pulse thundered in his ears, and even the gentle lapping of the water on the sides of the cavern and the distant sulphurous smell was too much for his mind. His thoughts whirled, frightening and uncontrollable. Eventually, too exhausted to continue, he slipped into a fitful sleep.

\----

A pain in his knee jolted Geralt awake. Gasping and spluttering, he pushed himself up a bit, finding that he was still slumped over in the pool. His heart sank as the pain made itself known and he processed it. Over the past few days, he had become keenly aware of what was a normal ache and what meant the onset of another episode. The pain was more distinct, pulsing in time with his heart, which was racing. Taking a deep breath, Geralt tried to calm himself. On shaky arms, he pulled himself out of the pool and sat down on the ledge, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping a towel around his shoulders. He mustn’t have slept for very long — Nenneke wouldn’t leave him in such a state for more than an hour. With the pain threatening, Geralt didn’t trust himself to climb the narrow, rough-hewn steps back to the temple precinct. He curled up and tried to control his breathing and heart rate, hoping Nenneke would send someone to fetch him soon.

As the minutes passed, the pain began to radiate outwards, and he struggled to keep his heart under control. It was worse, Geralt thought, to know what was coming. He hated the way the pain brought him low, turned him into a quivering mass barely able to keep his breathing and heart under his control. Miserably, he hugged his legs tighter to his body as the pain pushed further and further outwards like ripples in a lake. His whole leg was stiff and twitching now; he couldn’t have moved it if he wanted to. The agony bled up into his torso and arms quickly after that, and he found himself pressing his cheek against the cool, damp stone in an effort to alleviate his discomfort. His breaths came in short gasps, and when he tried to move an arm to brace himself better on the floor, Geralt found that the muscles were taut, hard as rock, and burning with agony. Letting out a shaky, whimpering breath, Geralt bit the inside of his cheek. He really was losing himself — it was getting harder and harder to keep himself from shouting in agony. However, eventually even his facial muscles became to taut to make noises beyond the soft, whimpering gasps. He slumped on the floor, curled into a wrecked, miserable ball. 

Eventually, Geralt’s vision began to tunnel. He hated himself for thinking it took far too long. For wishing for the sweetness of darkness. Witchers weren’t supposed to wish for such things, but with every muscle in his body tight and cramping, Geralt couldn’t find it within himself to give a fuck. Trying to relax as much as he could, he melted into the unconsciousness, encouraging it as much as he could. He let his eyes fall shut, tried to unclench his hands with little success.

He lost his ability to concentrate long before he lost consciousness.

\----

Every muscle in Geralt’s body felt like it had been stretched and twisted impossibly. Similar to how he had felt before his Trials when he had been training at Kaer Morhen, but a thousand times worse. Suppressing a groan, he tried to roll over, only to discover he was too weak. Every muscle he tried to engage simply trembled weakly and gave out. He couldn’t even open his eyes. The air was heavy and hot, and as he breathed Geralt began to remember how he had ended up here. He was at the Temple. Nenneke was trying to help him. Pathetically, he hoped she would hurry up.

Then, a small hand made contact with his cheek. Geralt started as much as he was able to while his muscles were in open rebellion.

“Shh,” he heard a small voice whisper, “I’m just here to check on you. I’ll go get help.”

Using his remaining reserves of energy, Geralt peeled his eyelids open halfway. His face was crusted over with sweat and what was probably drool. He scrunched it up a bit, trying to remove the uncomfortable stiffness from his skin. There was the hot, tangy smell of blood under his nose as well. When had he gotten a nosebleed, he wondered?

The tiny hand had disappeared from his face and the person from his limited range of view before he had been able to get a proper look at them. Small footsteps flapped quickly away, jogging as they ascended the stairs. Geralt wiggled his fingers, feeling dazed and frustrated. He was too groggy to have any real concept of how much time passed, but it seemed to have only been a couple minutes before he heard the footsteps again. This time there was another set, heavier. Accompanied by the sound of a swished robe. Nenneke. Geralt wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or frustrated. He had hoped the priestess would be able to find a cure without actually having to witness an episode. It was humiliating.

“Oh, Geralt,” he heard her voice sigh, not exasperated, just worried, “What the fuck happened to you?”

The part of his brain that usually ruled his tongue quickly came up with a snappish response about how if he knew he would definitely have enlightened her already, but he bit it back. Mostly because his mouth felt like it was full of cotton and he was fairly sure he was drooling. Nenneke wasn’t tolerant of insolence at the best of times, let alone when he was heaped on her bathroom floor in an incoherent mess.

Nenneke wrapped one arm under his legs and the other around his shoulders and lifted him off the floor. Geralt only had a moment to be surprised at how strong she was before stars danced in front of his eyes as his head, too weak to support itself, banged back against her elbow. Nenneke adjusted her grip a bit, cradling his head on her shoulder, and exhaled loudly as she began to ascend the stairs, whoever who had gone to fetch her trailing behind. Almost without realizing it, Geralt let his eyes slide shut again. He was so tired, which felt strange, considering he remembered just recently awakening from a nap. Unfortunately, he wasn’t really feeling up to wondering about why at the moment. Lazily, he watched the stone walls float by, gradually turning from rough cut rock to smooth bricks as they ascended. Nenneke never broke stride, never gave any signs that he was too heavy, although he might have just been too disoriented to notice them. Every muscle in his body ached, and he just wanted to sleep. Blearily, Geralt realized that this was probably the worst pain he had had since the whole nightmare had started. It was getting worse. If he had been coherent enough to feel afraid, he would have.

After what might have been hours or only minutes, Geralt felt Nenneke deposit him gently on a soft bed he recognized instantly as the one he always occupied when he was visiting the Temple. He sighed. The mattress was soft, and the pillows were deliciously cool. He even managed to get himself rolled over a bit, pressing his cheek against the coolest spot, before he felt Nenneke’s slender hand rolling him back.

“Ah, ah. Not yet,” she chided in a soft tone that made Geralt feel panicky; she was never so gentle with him unless he was very ill, “I did some reading while you were in the caves. There are a few things I want to check. I think you’ve been cursed, Geralt.”

Geralt wasn’t really sure what to do with this information. If he had been feeling better, he might have been alarmed. Curses were tricky to break, and could be deadly. But right now he was just so damn tired. He wished Nenneke would leave him alone so he could get some rest. Making a noncommittal grunt, he tried to roll away, but he was far too weak. Lying and blinking dizzily up at the ceiling, he felt Nenneke wipe the blood, sweat and drool off his face, and then move down to his leg. She poked around for a bit, making his muscles prickle and ache when she touched him. He glared at her a bit, but without any real heat.

“Your muscles are like rock. No wonder you’ve been in pain. Don’t worry, I think I know what happened to you, and I might have a way to fix it. But it won’t be pleasant.”

“Mmm..s’fine. Just want to sleep.”

Nenneke smiled at him in a fond manner that made him feel deeply concerned, and brushed a bit of sweaty hair out of his face.

“Let me check your leg first.”

Geralt rolled his head away and close his eyes, feeling a bit embarrassed by his own weakness. Nenneke was poking around in his wounds and he could barely keep his eyes open. Under normal circumstances, he would've watched carefully. Often, Nenneke had useful techniques that he would apply to his own healing in the wilds. That was, if he survived. 

“If I'm right, there should be a shard of something in the wound. Usually a bit of rock, sometimes an amulet or a pendant. The curse is anchored to it and then attached to an object where it's likely to find itself impaled in the victim’s body. It would explain why you're still limping, and also the symptoms you're experiencing. Such curses are usually randomized, meant to kill the victim slowly over several months.”

Geralt knew that Nenneke was talking more to herself than to him. He was hazy, barely conscious, but he still tried to understand what she was saying. If nothing else, he took a professional interest in it. Although the need for rest was currently the dominating thought in his mind. He was sure if he could just sleep a little bit, his muscles would stop trembling and twitching, and he would feel a bit more lucid. Dizzily, he thought it would be nice if the ceiling would stop spinning as well. He felt sick. 

“I'm going to have to reopen the wound, but I don't want to risk sedating you right now,” Nenneke continued, “Will you be alright if I open it again while you're awake? I'd rather not let you fall asleep and then disturb your rest.”

Geralt nodded, but his head was already so fuzzy and he was already so dizzy that even the slight motion set his stomach reeling. Without any real warning other than a sudden dull ache in his stomach, he retched, barely giving Nenneke time to roll him on his side. His vision blacked out, and his weakened muscles cramped and trembled in protest as sweat dripped down his face. When he was done, Geralt flopped lifelessly forward, staring listlessly at the sheets. He could barely find the energy to keep his eyes open, let alone be embarrassed. He figured Nenneke had seen worse, and he didn't particularly care either way. The sooner he could sleep, the sooner all the pain and dizziness would go away. Briefly, Geralt wondered if that made him a coward. 

Nenneke helped him roll onto his back again and sighed. Geralt couldn't tell if she was reproachful, or just tired. Distantly, he heard something clanging, and he felt a sharp pain in his leg. The priestess must be re-opening the wound, and Geralt wondered why it didn't hurt more. He watched the ceiling spin above him and registered more full aching and tugging. There was a brief burst of fiery pain up his leg, which made him gasp and cough momentarily, and then a soft clanging as something was dropped onto a metal plate. 

“I got a stone out of your leg,” Nenneke said grimly, swimming back into Geralt’s hazy field of vision, “You'll need to rest for a few days, but you should live. Maybe you'll even learn to be more careful to inspect your wounds before you stitch them shut next time.”

Exhausted as he was, Geralt was relieved to see she had returned to her usual obstinate self. Seeing Nenneke behaving almost tenderly towards him had been more frightening than the actual curse. 

“I expect you'd like to sleep now, and it’ll be a while before you fully recover your strength. That wound in your leg will need to heal up again too, I had to deepen it quite a bit to extract the stone. Try to rest. I'll have someone look in on you to make sure you don't need anything.”

Geralt blinked up at her hazily, his eyelids feeling impossibly heavy. He very much wanted to sleep, but he was so very cold. He could barely even find the energy to shiver. His muscles were wrecked from overuse. 

“Don't worry, I'll light a fire before I go.”

Nenneke draped a blanket over him, and Geralt briefly wondered if Visenna had ever done something similar for him. He had no childhood memories of such an incident, but it was a very maternal thing to do. Too bad Visenna had been such a shit mother. Geralt closed his heavy eyelids, breathing out a deep sigh. He was exhausted. It had been a long time since he had rested properly. And then he slept. 

\----

Five days later Geralt found himself feeling considerably better, if still quite weakened from the final episode in the caves. He had a limp Nenneke suspected would take months to go away, but he managed fine with a stick. Secretly, he hoped he would be able to walk well enough to leave by the end of the week. The days were beginning to shorten and get colder, and Geralt wanted to make it back to Kaer Morhen before the passes were covered with snow. He was trying to rest his leg as much as possible, in hopes he would be able to limp his way out in a way Nenneke seemed acceptable instead of slipping out under the cover of darkness. The priestess was always far more agreeable to treating him again when he left with her permission, though he was not below slipping out if he had no other option. 

Massaging his aching muscles, he eased himself down on a bench in the impressively beautiful water gardens on the Temple’s lower level. There were carp swimming in one of the ponds, and after watching their mouths gasp at the surface for a moment, Geralt took a half eaten sandwich from his pocket and tossed it into the pool. He still had very little appetite, and the fish looked hungry. 

“And just what do you think you're feeding those fish?”

Grimacing from more than just the pain in his leg and muscles, Geralt turned. Nenneke stood behind him, arms crossed, a picture of disapproval. 

“If fish were meant to eat ham sandwiches, then the Goddess would have given them legs and teeth to hunt with. Besides, you're not even supposed to be out here. Traipsing around the garden was definitely not what I meant when I said you were allowed to get up and walk.”

Nenneke offered Geralt her arm, and he took it, feeling like an old man with his stick and still needing her support. Together, they limped back through the water gardens, the Priestess grumbling the whole way. When they reached the main courtyard of the Temple, Geralt felt mildly relieved that he occupied a room on the main floor, overlooking the small courtyard garden. This was the first time he’d been up for a long walk since Nenneke had broken the curse, and even though he hated to admit it, his legs were trembling abominably. He was more than happy to let Nenneke hold the door for him and help him to a chair by the empty hearth, propping his leg up on a small stool as she went.

“Now,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “I want to dispel any notions of you limping out here in the middle of the night. And no, don’t say you weren’t thinking about it. I know the look you get when you’re contemplating slipping out of here to go hunt Goddess only knows against all my advice.”

Geralt sank back into the armchair. His energy was sapped, and he wasn’t in any shape to argue with the Priestess at the moment. A fact she probably knew all too well. She was a master of choosing her moments wisely.

“I need to make it back to Kaer Morhen before the passes are snowed over,” Geralt explained, reflecting not for the first time that Nenneke was one of only a handful of people who still made him feel like he needed to justify his every action, “It’s too late in the year to take any more contracts, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

Nenneke raised a dark eyebrow imperiously, one thin finger tapping on the mantelpiece.

“And just how do you plan on traversing the passes when you can barely make it from the water gardens to your room without nearly collapsing in my arms? And may I also remind you that you still can’t walk unaided, even when you’re not exhausted?”

“Roach.”

“I gather you’re expecting her to hunt your food as well? Gather water? Fight off the wolves in the high mountains?”

“Nenneke, the mountains are at least a week’s worth of travel from here. There are small villages all the way up to the foothills. I’ll stay in inns, let myself recover. I’ll be more than able to fight by the time I’m in the passes.”

It might have been a trick of the fickle afternoon light, but Geralt thought he saw the Priestess’s face crumble a bit.

“I do wish you’d stop appearing on my doorstep half dead,” she sighed, leaning back on the mantelpiece, “Every time I send you off I feel as though I’ve healed you just so you can go and find a new way to injure yourself.”

Geralt allowed himself a small chuckle at this.

“That’s the Path, Nenneke. That’s what I’m supposed to do. I’d be a damn shitty Witcher if I never took any contracts that got me hurt.”

The Priestess nodded, which Geralt took as capitulation. All the fire had gone out of her, and a tiredness dogged her shadow.

“You’re destined for something greater, Wolf. That’s the only reason I’m letting you go now. Because you can’t die before you’ve fulfilled that destiny. The Goddess would never allow it.”

“And when I’ve fulfilled that destiny?”

Nenneke shrugged half heartedly, her normal imperious, authoritative manner gone.

“I don’t know. Destiny is kind to some, and cruel to others. Melitele will show us all the way, if we give her the time to do her work.”

\----

Nenneke insisted on packing Geralt’s bags and saddling Roach for him that night so he could spend a bit longer resting his leg and his aching muscles by the fire. He was still exhausted, and he knew the Priestess could tell, though she chose not to comment on it. It was near midnight by the time everything was ready to go, and Nenneke came back to Geralt’s room to insist he get a few hours’ rest before setting out the following morning. He acquiesced all to easily, relishing his last night in a soft bed. When he woke several hours later, he was stiff and sore, and the Priestess was waiting at the door with a characteristic frown on her face.

“I still think you’re a fool for leaving, Geralt. You’ve only barely recovered. I can see you trying to hide your wincing as you’re sitting up right now.”

Geralt gave her a tired glare and proceeded to sit up straighter, massaging his aching joints. He was tired and sore, but it was time to go home. It had been far too long since he had seen Eskel. At this point, he would even be happy to see Lambert’s sour expression and Coen’s silent brooding. He had managed to find people who cared for him on the Path, but none of them knew the way he lived. The way he forced himself to choke back the groan of agony as he stood up now and limped out the door, brushing off Nenneke’s hand. The way he would forge on through the snow even though the mere thought of travelling made him feel achy and ill. When he returned to Kaer Morhen, he would tell Eskel about his year, the contracts he had taken and the new scars he had acquired, and his brother would listen. Then he would do the same. That was the way it had always been between them, a silent understanding between the only two survivors of their round of Trials. 

As he limped away from the courtyard towards where Roach was waiting, Geralt turned and gave Nenneke a final wave, still relying heavily on his stick to get him to Roach’s side and up onto her back. Eskel would laugh if he saw Geralt like this. That, in and of itself, was something he could only share with his brother. Others would be horrified to hear him making light of his ordeal. But Eskel would throw his head back and chuckle, laughing with Geralt not because it was amusing, but because he had lived, and on the whole, that was a thing to celebrate.

Sighing tiredly and massaging his aching muscles once more, Geralt turned Roach away, through the gates of the Temple and out into the dark night. He had many days of hard riding ahead of him if he was going to reach Kaer Morhen in time, and the mountain blizzards waited for no man. As soon as he was out of sight of the Temple’s high walls, he kicked Roach into a gallop, barely suppressing a groan as his leg jarred. He couldn’t afford to loose time, not now. Winter was fast approaching, and if Nenneke was to be believed, destiny would guide him safely home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!! Please let me know what you think/if there’s anything you liked or disliked. Reviews make me feel less like I’m shouting into the void :)


	4. Betrayal

The people of the coast were inherently suspicious. Geralt had already thought this, but as he journeyed further East it only became more apparent. Most people this close to the sea had not had a Witcher in their town within living memory, and the reactions he got were, as always, mixed. But when he rode into Tor Andra, his skin prickled almost immediately. At first, he thought it was just the magic surrounding the place. Tor Andra was an old eleven citadel, a tower carved directly into the cliffside, with a small village surrounding it that had sprouted up haphazardly in the years since humans had taken over residence. Geralt loved elven towers, and he was rather looking forwards to a stay in an inn, if only to see the town closer up. But he couldn't shake the sense of foreboding. Even Roach shied a little as they passed under the gates. If not for his desperate need for coin, Geralt would have turned tail and galloped to the next town. But even tiny villages were few and far between on the coast. It was likely this would be the only chance at a contract Geralt would have for several weeks. He hadn't eaten properly for days, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. 

The moment Geralt left the spread out houses on the outskirts and entered the cobbled streets of the city proper, he garnered attention. Women and children popped their head out of high up windows, and men wandering in the streets below raised their sword or hands in greeting. Surprised, Geralt rode on, feeling uncomfortable. He wasn't used to having to greet people using anything other than a cursory grunt or the sharp end of his sword. Life had not been forgiving since Blaviken. 

There were several other strange things about Tor Andra as well, which set Geralt’s teeth on edge. A man of habit, he always liked to find an inn straightaway to drop off his things, before finding the town’s lord or alderman. However, none of the buildings in the town had signs. In fact, they all shared the same facade in a variety of colours, making it impossible to tell what building was for what. Also, there was no city guard. Geralt had never been in a town of this size, particularly one with no fortifications beyond a poorly built wooden wall, that did not have a robust city guard. Nilfgaard had also been advancing further and further up the coast. Every town from the border to Blaviken should have been armed to the teeth, ready for war. 

Breathing out through his nose to calm his uneasy thoughts, Geralt allowed Roach to continue up the cobbles towards the tower. The road was beginning to get steeper as they approached the base of the cliffs, and the houses on either side were more pleasant and richly decorated. The air smelled cleaner, too, although once one breathed in the stench of shit and horses that filled the lower town it was hard to forget. A few women stepped out of the way of Roach’s hooves and smiled up at Geralt, leaving him feeling even more bemused. The coast was not known for being friendly to Witchers, and it was hard to mistake Geralt for anything other than what he was. 

Leaving the women behind, Geralt turned around a corner decorated with urns full of flowers. They did a poor job at masking the stench of the lower town. However, as he rounded the corner, the gate of the tower came into view. Having failed to find an inn, Geralt supposed he would have to ask for the lord’s help, if there was a lord at all. Based on the lack of a guard or any sort of city authority, the Witcher was beginning to doubt it. He clopped through the gates unchallenged, and dismounted in an empty courtyard. Holding Roach’s reins, he looked around, senses on high alert. 

The clipping sound of heeled shoes echoed in a distant hallway. Geralt turned sharply, right hand itching to reach for the dagger in his boot. The whole situation made all his instincts scream at him to leave. But he needed the coin, and he was better equipped to deal with danger than most. Keeping his predator’s eyes fixed on the entrance, Geralt watched a diminutive person appear in the dim hallway. 

“Welcome to Tor Andra,” a light, feminine voice said, the person still not appearing fully from the shadows of the stone hall, “My name is Nyra Theressig, the lady of the tower.”

As she spoke, Nyra stepped into the light, and Geralt was tempted to let his eyes roll back in his head. He had met enough mages with a penchant for the dramatic to know when someone was trying to make an entrance. And the Lady of Tor Andra’s entrance was a show in ten acts. She stepped out from the shadows in such a way that half her face remained veiled in darkness, until she exposed it with an artful flip of her wavy brown hair. Geralt could not deny that she was beautiful. She had shiny brown hair that fell almost to her waist, and brilliant blue eyes that pierced his own. But he could also sense the glamour on her from here. Whoever Nyra Theressig was, she certainly wasn't the person she was presenting herself as now. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” he returned, giving a bow that might have had too many flourishes to not seem mocking, “A Witcher from the East. Looking for a contract.”

Nyra smiled and extended a white hand that was so slender it defied all perceptions of reality. If you were going to use a glamour, Geralt reflected, you should at least do it well. 

“I'm sure we can find some work for you here,” she said ambiguously, taking Geralt’s arm, “Why don't you join me inside for dinner first? You must have travelled a long way.”

Geralt tried not to let his nose scrunch up at her tone. It was overly seductive, and it made his skin crawl. He fought back the urge to shake her hands off his arm, feeling goosebumps prickle under his skin. 

“I'd like to see to my horse.” Firmly, he planted his feet in the ground. 

“Oh, she's already been looked after, don't worry.”

Geralt turned to see a stable boy leading Roach away through another archway. He was relieved he had strapped his swords onto his back when he left his camp that morning, or he would be unarmed now. 

“If you or anyone else here leaves her with a hair out of place, I will rip you limb from limb.”

Nyra smiled as though she had expected nothing less. 

“Don't worry, she'll get the best of care. Follow me.”

Normally, Geralt would have put up a bit more of a fight before allowing himself to be led away thus, but he was exhausted and hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. He followed the woman into the castle, passing his gaze over the stern looking portraits and empty suits of armour as they walked down the stone halls. The place seemed empty — their footsteps echoed hollowly. 

Finally, they entered a great hall, at the far end of which was a great hearth and a long table set for three people. A young woman already sat at one place, eating small morsels. She looked up when Geralt and Nyra approached, and smiled a little. Her expression seemed strained, and when Nyra went to stand behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, the woman flinched away imperceptibly. 

“This is my daughter, Annika. Annika, this is Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher. I told him we could try to find some work for him around the tower. But first, we should eat. I'll go see where supper is at while you get acquainted.”

She swept out of the room in a flurry of regal robes and long hair. Annika and Geralt were left in the hall. Geralt shifted on his feet, feeling uncomfortable. The girl stared at her plateful of bread, expression mostly hidden behind a long curtain of brown hair. She looked not a day younger than her mother, but Geralt could sense no glamour on her. 

Finally, Annika looked up and glanced about surreptitiously, as though she was checking to make sure no one was listening in. Geralt listened too, but he could hear no footsteps in the castle. It was eerily silent. She took a breath and looked up at him, face pinched anxiously. Her cheeks were thin and hollow and set her blue eyes into high relief. She looked rather ill. A thin hand beckoned him over nervously. 

“You have to get out of here,” she whispered when Geralt was nearer, although he noticed she didn't wait nearly as long as he would have expected her to for someone with normal hearing, “My mother is a mage. She took Tol Andra from the family that was ruling here, and now the whole city is under her spell. She wants to bewitch you as well, to keep the armies that would take Tol Andra back at bay.”

Geralt frowned, unsurprised that there was more going on in the city than met the eye. He considered for a moment, rocking back and forth on the heels of his boots, trying to seem unconcerned in case someone was watching. 

“Why are you telling me this?” He finally settled on asking. It was suspiciously sudden. Annika hadn't even made an effort to find out more about him or to carry on a normal conversation first. 

She looked around, swallowing uneasily. Just then, Geralt heard the sharp heels of Nyra’s boots clicking against the floor again. Annika quickly busied herself with her bread as her mother burst through the door. 

“I'm sorry for being such a horrible host,” she laughed shrilly, “But the kitchen staff are a bit lacking in performing their duties tonight.”

Annika gave Geralt a pointed look that suggested the kitchen staff was probably meeting an unpleasant end as they spoke. For his part, the Witcher felt suspicious about the whole situation. Annika had confided in him too early, the whole situation had felt too easy. Surely, if the girl was as afraid as she seemed, she would have been more careful to speak to Geralt in private. Still, her words had seemed sincere and honest. He hadn’t smelled the telltale signs of a lie on her, and he was rarely wrong about such things. The only thing keeping him in the hall at this point was that he was fairly sure he would starve if he walked out the door now. Uncomfortably, he sat down at the table next to Nyra. He did not remove his swords, even though they poked him in the back uncomfortably as he sat in the high-backed chair.

“So, Geralt of Rivia,” Nyra gave him a winning smile that made him feel shivery and cold all over again, “What brings you to the coast? We haven’t had a Witcher out in these parts for years. It’s unusual for your kind to travel so far West, no?”

Geralt stared straight back at her until, finally, she averted her piercing blue gaze for a moment.

“We tend to stay further inland, it’s true. Coastal monsters are beyond even our abilities to tame at times; we weren’t created to fight in the water. How far have you been in Tol Andra, Lady Nyra? I don’t remember the last time I heard of you or your family in courtly circles. Forgive me though, I don’t spent much time with such people. Witchers are too rough for most noblemen. They prefer to send others to do their dirty work and hire us to slay their demons.”

Nyra’s eyes flashed. Clearly, she had sensed Geralt’s challenge. He watched her closely, seeing her hands fiddle uncomfortably with a silver knife on the wooden table.

“We tend to stay away from such courtly circles as well, Sir Witcher,” the brilliant smile was back, as though it had never faltered, “The dramatics and intrigue of such people hold little interest for us. Tol Andra is a unique place, and we prefer to keep to ourselves here.”

Geralt figured he should probably check himself before his tongue got him into real trouble. If what Anna said was true, he could be playing a dangerous game, and even if it wasn’t, it was clear Nyra was not who she appeared to be.

“I understand the urge to stay far away from courtly politics.” He said diplomatically, pasting a smile on his face that he hoped wasn’t too feral looking. He did, however, allow a pointed corner of his incisors to poke out on top of his lower lip, as a reminder that he was far from human. If Nyra noticed, she gave no sign.

A small, frightened-looking girl scurried in from the side door through which Nyra had appeared several minutes earlier. Her face was dirty, the only clean parts being hastily wiped away tracks left by tears. Her little brown eyes were red from crying, and she approached the table with a tremble in her step, as though her ankles were suddenly weakened at the sight of them.

“Ah, Rayale,” Nyra gave her an intimidating smile, and the girl cringed a bit, “I see you took your time. What do you have for us this evening?”

“Roasted chicken, my lady,” the little girl said in a quavering voice, eyes resolutely fixed on her dirty brown shoes, “With carrots.”

“Well, bring it here,” turning to Geralt, Nyra motioned to the little girl, “Rayale was an orphan from the Nilfgaardian wars in the South. She’s a bit slow, poor girl, but she is an excellent cook.”

Geralt nodded, feeling uncomfortable. He did not consider calling small children who were clearly frightened out of their wits “slow”, no matter the circumstances. However, he felt like saying something to counter Nyra in her hall would only bring him greater troubles. Right now, he would settle for a hot meal and worry about the rest later. Besides, as he had learned in Blaviken, getting involved rarely paid off in the way he hoped.

The little girl approached him with pure fear reflecting in her eyes. Geralt tried to offer her a small, reassuring smile, and he thanked her warmly when she served him a chicken leg and a side of carrots. He barely managed to contain himself until Annika and Nyra were served before he ripped half the skin on the chicken leg off savagely, not even having the good graces to blush when Nyra looked over at him. Dizziness from lack of food had been beginning to set in, and he wanted to be as alert as he could be. The whole tower and everyone in it reeked of danger.

After dinner, Nyra led Geralt and Annika to a small library, fitted with resplendent red furniture and with a fire already crackling merrily in the hearth. Geralt caught a glimpse of Rayale’s brown dress scurrying out of the room as they rounded the door; she must have just finished building up the fire before they entered. Nyra offered rum and wine from crystal decanters on a side table, but Geralt refused. He was immune to most poisons and could smell all of them, but he wasn’t in the mood to take risks tonight. There were some mind-altering drugs that could be made invisible even to his mutated senses by someone with the right skills. Nyra shrugged and handed a crystal glass to Annika, who took a long draught. The girl looked even more exhausted now, and Geralt resolved to try to catch her alone when he had the chance. He was very curious to hear more of what she had to say to him. In the meantime, he settled on the couch, determined to remain vigilant. Tonight would be a night of little sleep.

\----

It was many hours of idle conversation later when Nyra finally excused herself, with Annika quickly following suit, beckoning for Geralt to follow her.

“I’ll show you to your room,” she said with a tired, sad smile, “And I’ll see you in the morning. Perhaps we can talk more then?”

Geralt nodded, looking her over carefully. Her cheeks were pinched and hollow, and he could hear her pulse hammering rapidly in her chest. However, he once again could sense no deceit from her. It seemed the girl was simply exceptionally anxious and afraid, strikingly similar to the display he had witnessed with Rayale earlier. He was eager to talk to her more.

“Is there a garden, or somewhere where we can talk undisturbed?” He asked her, wanting to hear more from her far away from Nyra’s prying ears.

“I like to walk along the cliffs. There’s a path at the far end of the tower, if you leave through the front entrance. I can meet you there tomorrow morning.” Annika’s voice was hushed and Geralt heard her pulse increase even more.

“I’ll be there. Try to get some rest tonight.”

Looking desperately fearful, Annika nodded, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door with wrought-iron hinges and ornamentation.

“This is your room. If you look, you should be able to see the path to the top of the cliff from the window. I don’t want you to get lost.”

Geralt offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I can always climb the cliffs if I do. They look fairly easy to scale, no?”

She offered a little smile in return.

“I did it all the time as a girl. I should have known you wouldn’t be stopped by something as simple as not being able to find the easiest route to the top. I’ve heard enough about your kind to know you’re not deterred by the absence of a simple solution.”

Geralt snorted softly.

“Goodnight, Annika.”

“Goodnight.”

She turned in a swirl of green silks and walked resolutely down the torchlit hall, leaving Geralt alone to push open the great door. He winced as it creaked.

Inside, the room was resplendent, complete with a bed decorated with a rick silken canopy, a walnut chest and dresser, and rich drapes in the single window. Geralt discovered someone had even brought up his saddlebags from the stables. He found himself thinking of Roach. He sincerely hoped she was having a more pleasant experience than he was. At least, he hoped she was getting some sleep. That was more than Geralt would be doing tonight. He had felt something was off ever since arriving here, and he wasn’t about to let whatever that was sneak up on him while he was having a rest. Setting his swords down on the floor next to him, Geralt settled into a high-backed armchair by the empty hearth. If he had not been a Witcher, it would have been a dreadful cold night. He settled back, crossed his legs, and tried to meditate a little while still staying alert enough to jump up at the slightest sound of danger. In the distance, he could hear birds calling. There were no sounds from the streets below.

\----

Geralt was started from his uneasy meditation by a soft rapping on the door. He hadn’t really been able to clear his mind enough to properly meditate tonight; thoughts of Annika and Nyra swirled through his subconscious with such fortitude that he was unable to clear them. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he leapt up. It was nowhere near dawn; no one should have been up at this hour. Drawing his dagger, he crept towards the door. With inhuman speed, he flung it open and grabbed the person by the neck, spinning them around and pinning them against his own body with his dagger at their throat. 

It was only then that he noticed he had had to reach considerably lower down than normal to grab this person’s neck.

“Fuck.” he grunted, releasing the diminutive girl from his grasp. Rayale was skin and bones under her baggy dress; Geralt felt like if he held her too tightly she might simply snap in two. If he stayed another day, he resolved to find a way to get her some food. Fuck not interfering, this girl was on the brink of starvation.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rayale let out in a quick, breathy gasp, “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’ve come to warn you.”

Geralt pushed her away a bit too roughly, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, either,” he said awkwardly, unused to having to comfort small children, “What the hell are you doing wandering around the tower in the middle of the night?”

The little girl swallowed, and Geralt could see her esophagus working in her too-thin neck. She looked absolutely petrified, and he gestured for her to come and sit in the chair by the hearth. She sat daintily on the very edge, as though she was afraid it would burn her if she relaxed too much.

“I came to find you, Sir Witcher,” she said shakily, “It’s about Nyra and Annika. They’re planning to kill you, tomorrow when you meet Annika on the cliffs. Nyra just told Annika to say those things about her to get you to meet her somewhere far enough away from Tor Andra. Nyra is a mage, it’s true. But she took control of the tower for a different reason. She wants to open a portal between spheres, to travel far away from here. And to open a portal, she needs a sacrifice. A thousand lives. She’s planning to burn the whole city, and she can’t let you get in the way.”

Geralt leaned back against the mantel, trying to process what Rayale was telling him. He had heard of such things, sacrificing lives to open dark portals which led between spheres. Once, Yennefer had even told him a bit about how it worked, although he had been rather compromised at the time and didn’t remember any of the details.

“And how do you know this?”

“I…I listened at the door to her study.” Rayale looked horribly guilty, and her tiny hands twisted in her lap, “After you went to bed tonight, Annika and Nyra met up again in the hall. Nyra said you were compromising her plans. When Annika pushed her for more details, she explained it all. They’re still there, in the study. If you go now, you can stop this.”

Rayale’s little face was so frightened and earnest Geralt felt tempted to pull her to him. He imagined if this were Ciri, about to be burned alive and trying to find some way, any way to stop it. 

“Please…” the little girl whispered, staring up at him with tears in her eyes, “I survived one fire in Nilfgaard. I don’t want to die in one here.”

To his eternal shame, Geralt felt his heart twist a little in his chest. He couldn’t stop thinking about Ciri, about what he would hope another Witcher would do if he found himself in such a position. He couldn’t keep himself immune when the lives of every person in Tor Andra were in danger.

“I’ll stop it, Rayale,” he said quietly, squeezing her arm a bit, “Just stay here. I’ll be back for you when this is all done.”

She nodded, brushing tiny tears away from her eyes.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

\----

Geralt strode purposefully down the halls, keeping Rayale’s instructions in the back of his mind as he did so. Every passage in this damned castle looked the same. He would have been hopelessly lost without her guidance, superior sense or no.

As he approached the ornately decorated door to the study, he could smell Nyra’s perfume, as well as strong undercurrent of fear. There were voices coming from the inside, raised and shrill. Perhaps the two women had gotten into an argument. With some satisfaction, Geralt thought that this would make his job easier. He didn’t want to kill anyone, just subdue them, and that would be easier if they were distracted by each other.

He knew the door would be locked, so he used Aard to blast it open instead. There was a shrill shriek from the other side. When the dust cleared, Geralt felt his heart drop to the bottom of his chest.

Annika was bound in a corner, tears pouring down her face. In front of her, Nyra stood, looking triumphant.

“I knew I’d find your weakness, White Wolf,” she grinned, hands working vigorously to make some sort of spell, “I heard what happened in Blaviken. Not the version they tell in taverns, but the real version. The one where you sacrificed your honour and reputation to give mercy to someone you barely even knew. I figured Rayale would be able to convince you of the truth easily. And I was right.”

From behind a tapestry, the little girl stepped out. There must have been a door hidden behind it. Geralt knew from experience that elven towers usually had mazes of hidden tunnels and passageways linking their rooms.

“This is where you die, Witcher,” she snarled, a face which barely twenty minutes ago had been contorted in hopelessness and fear suddenly full of fiery rage, “Your kind are nothing more than beasts. My parents were slain by a Witcher on the Nilfgaardian border. He never even stopped to see if our village was empty before he razed the whole place to the ground. My whole family died trapped in the fire.”

At that moment, Nyra’s hands stopped spinning, and before Geralt could react, one of the suits of armour in the corner of the room jumped to life. He drew his sword, but he was still reeling, trying to understand what Rayale had said and which fucking Witcher had burned her village. He brought up the sword to block the blow, and succeeded, barely. However, Nyra quickly wove another spell, one that blasted him straight into the suit of armour. The pommel of the sword was brought down on his head before he was really aware that it was going to happen. Stars exploded behind Geralt’s eyes, and he went limp.

\----

Geralt was surprised that he awoke at all. His head ached horrifically, and for several moments, he could only lie, blinking his eyes slowly, as the sun-filled sky spun above him. He felt sick, and cold, and very wet and muddy. After a few minutes of swallowing convulsively, he pushed himself up on shaking arms. The world spun, and he clutched his chest, trying not to vomit. He was lying in a ditch, presumably next to a road. Mud filled the ditch nearly up to his neck, and Geralt took a moment to briefly offer up thanks to any and all deities that he hadn’t been deposited face-first.

When he tried to look around, something crinkled on his shoulder, and he found a small scroll rolled up and tied with a bit of green silk in the front pocket of his muddy shirt. He unrolled it, but his vision was too blurry to read the words. The silk he recognized, though. It was the same silk as had been on Annika’s dress.

Suddenly, all the memories came flooding back, and Geralt groaned. How on earth he had managed to escape with his life was a mystery to him. Nyra had been intent on ending him then and there. Everything had happened in such a rush, and now Geralt’s head was swimming with memories. Dizzily, he realized he should probably lie back down. Uncaring about the mud, he lowered himself back to the ground, trying not to throw up. He was sure he was concussed, and he had no idea where he was or how he had come to be there. Feeling sick, he closed his eyes.

Geralt wasn’t sure how long he lay in the dirt before he heard hooves on the road above him, and realized he hadn’t spared a thought for Roach since waking up. If nothing else, this proved how addled and disoriented he felt. Normally, his horse would be the first thing on his mind. He hoped, wherever she was, she had also somehow managed to escape, hopefully without sustaining any wounds. Geralt wasn’t sure he had his wits about him enough to patch her up at the moment.

The more pressing concern at the moment, though, was the rider approaching. Geralt had no idea where he was, or who might be on the road, and he was currently in no state to defend himself from anything. However, he though dizzily, he could take his chances and see if perhaps the person would be willing to help him get to a nearby inn where he could rest his aching head and eyes for a bit. Concussions were hell on his already overwrought senses.

Stumbling to his feet and barely keeping back the bile rising in his throat, Geralt half-crawled his way out of the ditch and tripped into the middle of the road, swaying drunkenly. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on his muddy boots, sure if he looked anywhere else he would lose whatever remained in his stomach from he dinner he had eaten in Tor Andra. 

Then, he heard a familiar whinny. 

“Geralt? Good Goddess, Geralt, is that you?”

He recognized the voice as well, but he was too addled to place it at the moment. Everything was spinning lazily, and he was swaying on his feet as the rider pulled up alongside him. Geralt recognized Roach’s shiny chestnut coat instantly, and the closer horse seemed familiar as well, a dappled grey. Pegasus. Jaskier? His mind twisted itself in knots, and his face twisted in discomfort.

“Fucking hell, Geralt. What happened you you? How did you even end up here? I saw Roach coming down the road towards me and thought perhaps something had happened to you, but I don’t understand how you came to be here at all. We’re a few days away from Velen, and last I heart you were heading towards the coast.”

Geralt didn’t know. He didn’t really know anything beyond the fact that his head was pounding and he was so very tired. He sagged against the dappled grey, hoping his senses weren’t deceiving him and it was Jaskier sitting atop her. A hand reached out and caught him, grunting with effort as it took the brunt of his weight and kept him from collapsing in the dirt.

“Might…might have a concussion.” Geralt slurred, well aware that he sounded drunk but far too tired to care. Something hot and sticky was trickling down the back of his neck, and it made him feel weak.

“Yes, the blood coating your head would suggest the same. Come on, let’s get you somewhere a bit more comfortable, and you can tell me your epic tale when you don’t look like you’re about to puke all over your boots.”

Geralt nodded at him weakly, sagging against Pegasus more.

“Come on, up you get. You can rest your head on my shoulder, that’s fine. Just no falling asleep until I’ve had a proper look at what happened to you.”

Geralt sagged behind Jaskier on the horse, resting his head on the bard’s back. He smelled good, like chamomile. Geralt sighed and tried to keep his eyes open as Jaskier walked both horses down the road.

He must have lost time, because the next thing he knew Jaskier was helping him down from Pegasus and half dragging him across what appeared to be a small clearing. Night had fallen, and Geralt was shivering exhaustedly.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier was saying, sounding tired and worried, “You look a fright. What happened to you?”

The Witcher knew he was talking more to himself, but he gave a small grunt. Jaskier jumped a bit.

“Here, you can tell me in the morning. I don’t think you’ll die if you try to get a little rest, and it might ease your headache a bit. Just try and get comfortable, and I’ll wake you in an hour or so to make sure you haven’t expired in your sleep.”

Geralt felt himself being laid down gently, and his head propped up against something soft. There were warm furs being wrapped around him, and even though he was too dizzy and sore to really open his eyes, he sensed Jaskier sitting down next to him. There was a small rustling, and then the bard began humming and plucking at the strings of his lute. A fire Geralt hadn’t noticed Jaskier building crackled close by, warming him a bit. Eventually, the soft humming eased his headache a bit and lulled him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for your kind comments and kudos! They mean the world to me! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well.


	5. Loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little shorter, but it felt appropriate for the prompt, so I didn’t want to force anymore. I really hope you all enjoy it, your sweet feedback so far has meant the world to me! I’m also so very much enjoying all the other submissions to this week! It’s been wonderful reading all your incredible, creative works. Thanks so much for stopping by, feel free to leave some kudos or thoughts if that’s your groove, or submit me prompts on Tumblr if that’s more your speed. I’m aloe-casia

The mountains were a desolate place. Beautiful, yes. But a person could go on for days and never see a soul, not even an animal or a bird. Just hear the rushing of the river echoing against the great stone slabs that jutted out of the earth like great hands had reached down and scooped them up from the heavens. In most places, the roads were reduced to the tracks left by deer and the occasional dirt path made by wood harvesters who dared to travel his deeply into the mountain ranges. There were entire meadows, pristine and untouched by human hands. Geralt had travelled back to Kaer Morhen by way of the mountains many times before, and every time he had found something new that he enjoyed about the untouched valleys, the clean mountain air and water. It wasn’t a solace he could ever find in inhabited areas, or even at home with his brothers. There was a peace in never being required to speak, never having to give an answer, just being alone with his thoughts and his horse and listening to the quiet, gentle sounds of the earth moving in her slow way about him. He felt a part of it — being alone here brought out some predatory instinct that he rarely got to indulge at any other time. Many times, Geralt had contemplated simply stopped in a valley, and setting down his pack. Building a cabin. Hunting for fish and deer. Truly becoming a part of the wilds. But every time, he was reminded of what he had gone through, and that it was his duty to protect others from harm. Not retreat to the middle of the wilds to live out his days in peace. No Witcher ever got to live out his days peacefully.

This year felt different, though. Something was off, and Geralt, unused to having to be introspective about such things, hadn’t the first idea what it was. Somehow, the trees seemed emptier this year. Even when the meadows were singing with cicadas and crickets and the rivers were alive with spawning fish, there was an emptiness in the air. A pressing silence Geralt couldn’t put his finger on, which confused him greatly. He was a man who loved silence and tranquility. Time to be alone with his thoughts. He didn’t know what was happening to him.

Granted, this year had been a bit different. After meeting Jaskier in Posada, the two of them had spent the rest of the year travelling in Lyria and Kaedwen looking for contracts and places to say. When the leaves had begun to turn, Jaskier had decided to journey homeward to spend his winter lecturing in Oxenfurt, and Geralt had given a cryptic answer when the bard had asked where Witchers spent their winters. They had parted ways in Ban Ard, with Geralt looking forwards to taking his normal path North through the mountains. Jaskier had looked lonely when they had parted, but he had managed to rope Geralt into meeting him Aedd Gynvael the following spring to continue travelling together. As much as Geralt was ashamed to admit it, he had grown very fond of the bard’s company. He was a welcome brightness on a path that had been so full of darkness and hatred, particularly since Blaviken. And, stranger still, Jaskier seemed to believe that Geralt was a good man. After years of hearing otherwise, Geralt was having a difficult time reconciling this. It made him feel…good. Happy. Jaskier made him feel happy. A rather strange revelation for a man who could honestly count years since he had felt truly happy outside the walls of Kaer Morhen — his only refuge in the aftermath of Blaviken.

The first few days after leaving Ban Ard, Geralt had felt fine. He was looking forwards to travelling through the mountains, to listening to the birds and visiting his favourite camping spots on the way back to the keep. But as he ventured further on, something changed. The days were too quiet, too long. He spent most of his time noting things he would tell Jaskier about in the spring. A beautiful waterfall, a bird with colourful plumage he had never seen before. Not the sort of thing he would have wasted any time on in previous years. But now, he found himself wishing a bit that he could share this path with the bard. Unaccustomed to understanding or dealing with such emotions, Geralt had no name for what he felt. Only that it ached a bit, and left him feeling hungry. Although that could have also been the fact that he hadn’t eaten much since he had left. He felt to preoccupied to hunt. Emotional range was not something he dealt with regularly, and it made him feel uncomfortable and anxious. Once again, he wished he could ask for Jaskier’s advice, even though he would never admit such a thing out loud. The man was an open book, free and willing to share his feelings with anyone and everyone. He would probably be able to name how Geralt was feeling.

As it was, though, Geralt was stuck. Perhaps, with time, it would go away on its own. The empty feeling, the desire to have Jaskier’s company. Perhaps these feelings were simply like infected wounds. They laid you low for a while, and then, with time, you would recover and be on your way again. Geralt hoped this was the way, at least. Wounds were something he understood. Something he could deal with effectively. He didn't want to learn how to deal with something entirely new. Witchers were creatures of habit.

He continued on through a vale that day, letting the wind that swept down the valley ruffle his hair and Roach’s mane, trying to recreate the happy memories he had travelling through this valley last year. High above, the snow-dusted peaks glistened in the sun. One particularly high one had a tail streaming behind it, where the harsh winds had swept the snow from its resting place and left it glistening in the open air. Geralt found himself wondering why more people didn’t occupy this region. It was as close to beautiful as he had ever experienced.

The sun had begun to set by the time he reached the far side of the valley, and the pass, though not too high, seemed impossible to ride through tonight. Besides, passes were dangerous after dark, and Geralt had no desire to fight off wargs tonight on top of everything else. He felt tired, and his ears rung with the noise of empty space.

“Come on, Roach,” he sighed, mostly to distract himself from his own emotional and physical discomfort, “We can rest here tonight. I know you’re tired.”

She snorted and tossed her head as if to say that she wasn’t. That it was Geralt who was tired and in need of a good rest. He hadn’t slept peacefully in nights. He set out his bedroll without even thinking about hunting or starting a fire. Witchers could handle the cold, and it had only been a few days since he had last had something to eat. His metabolism would slow to accommodate what his body needed. Besides, he was far too tired to consider shooting anything down at this time. The long shadows of the mountain crept slowly forwards, reaching out their tendrils until the whole valley was bathed in velvety darkness. The birds quieted, and the valley grew still. 

It was long past this time when Geralt finally closed his eyes and fell into a fitful, uneasy rest. It was too quiet, he thought. The deep breaths that he had grown used to hearing in the past few months were nowhere to be found. And that made him feel unbearably weak.

\----

The following morning dawned crisp and beautiful. There was a mist that had settled in the base of the valley, and each blade of grass and fallen leaf was decorated with a thin sheen of dew. Geralt blinked open his tired eyes and watched drop after drop of dew fall from the grass onto the forest floor next to him. He was cold, but couldn’t be bothered to get up and get a blanket. Normally, he would have stood to retrieve something to warm Jaskier, maybe started a fire to cook breakfast. But Witchers didn’t need fires to warm themselves, or regular food. He would be fine — it was only a few days’ ride to Kaer Morhen. He had gone longer before.

Eventually, he managed to peel himself off the dew-soaked ground, gritting his teeth and getting his shivering under control. Shivering was such a human physical response. It was uncomfortable and made Geralt tense and sore. Sighing, he wrapped up his bedroll, groomed and tacked Roach, and prepared himself to tackle the pass. 

If he remembered correctly, there was no real path up to the small dip between the two mountain peaks that served as a pass. Just some interconnected deer runs that would serve him well enough. However, they didn’t make for an efficient ascent, and Geralt could already tell the day promised to be a hot one. In the mountains, he would be unwise to divest himself of his armour. He resolved to see how he felt as the day went on, and gently nudged Roach into a walk. His throat ached, and he still felt tired. This valley was a peaceful one, and his faithful mare would be able to find her way. Surely, letting himself doze lightly in the saddle would be alright.

He sat slumped in the saddle for a long while, trying to find some rest. He chalked his sore throat up to the damp fall air, but it hurt abominably now, and he realized he had forgotten to fill his water skin before leaving the valley. He cursed his error. Normally, he would never have forgotten such a simple thing. Perhaps he would need to hunt for some food tonight after all. Something was clearly negatively effecting him.

They passed through the top of the pass with both Geralt and Roach on high alert. Passes were dangerous, even in the wilds, and it never hurt to be vigilant. Up here, there were no trees, just enormous, broken off boulders and a hard wind that whistled through the rocks with an eerie screaming noise. Some small flowers had dared to poke their heads up amongst the rocks, and Geralt was reminded of how Jaskier would have stopped for them. Said they were beautiful, even though they were impractical and a waste of time. Though, when Geralt had said as much, Jaskier had told him that stopping to admire small beauties helped him write more intricate songs and poetry. Geralt had simply snorted, but he had stopped complaining. He had even taught Jaskier some of the names of the herbs he used in his oils and potions, to make his songs more accurate.

Geralt pulled Roach to a stop on the far end of the pass. Normally, he wouldn’t have stopped for a rest until nightfall, but he was falling asleep in the saddle. He tied her reins to a dead, wizened tree and leaned back against a boulder. His body ached, and the wind was hot and uncomfortable on his dry skin. Without really giving it a second thought, he curled up and fell into a deep sleep. His last thought was that Vesemir would have slapped him for being so careless.

\----

Roach was the one who finally woke Geralt up with her soft, velvety nose pushing gently at him, trying to get him to roll over. He blinked open bleary, blurry eyes, nearly stuck together with sweat and sleep. His body was heavy, fevered, weak, and he felt utterly miserable. The throat ache that had been a persistent nuisance before was now a deep, unpleasant ache. He winced with every swallow. It was also a great mercy Roach had awoken him when she did — he had been nearly about to roll off the edge of the cliff. Fevers often made him toss and turn in his sleep, but he was surprised his body had been too tired to wake him to such an immediate threat.

“Thanks, Roach.” He barely managed to rasp out the words; his mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. 

Once again, Geralt found himself thinking of Jaskier. At about midsummer, the bars had been struck down with a fever. Geralt had been at a loss; treating human illnesses was not in his repertoire of skills. However, he had done his best. Tried to cool his fever, given him pain relieving teas for his cough. There had been a couple times when the bard, in his delirium, had asked Geralt to sing. To his eternal mortification (and upon swearing Jaskier to secrecy when he recovered), Geralt had hummed a little to him. Even half out of his mind with illness, Jaskier had told him he had a voice like a sackful of gravel, and couldn't hold a pitch to save his life. 

When Jaskier has fully recovered and was sitting wrapped in a blanket in front of the fire, he had thanked Geralt sincerely. And promised, if he ever needed, to do the same for the Witcher. Now, the one time in a decade Geralt actually had the chance to take him up on the offer, he was gone. And, horrifyingly, Geralt found himself deeply wishing the bard was here. 

Roach had stayed bent down by his head, and he wrapped a hand weakly around her mane and let her pull him up on shaking legs. It was strange, that he was so weak. He hadn't eaten in a while, but usually that didn't affect him so viscerally. There must be something else at work, but he could neither name it nor invest the energy in trying to figure it out at the moment. Roach had sunk down to her front knees, and Geralt pulled himself lethargically onto the horse’s back, drooping over her. Every inch of him shook. His eyes fluttered shut as Roach continued forwards, but he could not find rest. Eventually, he pulled a blanket from his bedroll behind him, and wrapped it around his shoulders. 

“Take me home, Roach.”

Geralt was beginning to wonder if he had been poisoned. He had only experienced such a fever before when he had sustained a poisoned wound. In the two times he had been ill since his mutations, it had just been a cough. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so miserable without an obvious cause. Perhaps Jaskier would have known, if he was here. Sighing, Geralt rolled his head fitfully in Roach’s mane and breathed in her scent. It was comforting and familiar, when everything around him bled together fuzzily with the fever. 

\----

Roach must have picked up a canter sometime while Geralt had been floating in a dreamlike state, because the next time he was awake enough to lift his head and see where he was, he could see the peaks of the Morhen Valley in the distance. Relieved, he lay his aching head and neck back down. More than anything now, Geralt wanted to be home. Lambert would mock him for taking such bad care of himself. Coen would pretend to be oblivious because illness made him deeply uncomfortable. Vesemir would chide him. Eskel would chide him too, and then take care of him. And right now, Geralt just wanted someone to look after him. He felt absolutely miserable, and in the absence of Jaskier, it would be so comforting to have someone to talk to. Or, at least, to bring him some water and blankets.

Through the whole afternoon, the mountainous landscape slide by in a feverish haze. Roach was too hot under Geralt, and he was so uncomfortable. The mountain passes flew by in a daze, and he was vaguely aware that Roach was nearing a gallop. She must be able to sense as his fever increased; she kept turning her velvety nose and nudging at his knee, as if to check he was still there. He tried his best to be reassuring and pat her nose. But his consciousness was dwindling. He could only hope that Roach would get him to Kaer Morhen and navigate the treacherous rock paths before he lost consciousness completely.

As it turned out, one of his final moments of lucidity that day was one where he sat up abruptly to find himself halfway through the steep mountain paths leading to the Witchers’ keep. Geralt sighed with relief. Surely, whoever was keeping watch on the wall would have seen him slumped on Roach’s back by now. He was finally safe at home.

\----

There was a great flurry as Roach meandered into the main courtyard of Kaer Morhen. Geralt was vaguely aware of Lambert and Coen calling for someone, but he kept tossing and turning and the air rushed so loudly in his ears. He was hungry, but the though of food turned his stomach, and he felt so very weak. Eventually, he felt himself being manhandled off Roach, arms slung over his brothers’ shoulders, boots scraping along the floor as they dragged him up the stairs to his room. Eskel was waiting there, bundling him in warm furs and chiding him gently, the undertones in his voice betraying his worry.

“Just stay still,” he hushed gently as Geralt tossed, trying to open his eyes to see his brother’s face, “You’re exhausted and we need to get you settled in bed. I expect a full story of what happened and an apology for riding in here a fevered mess later though.”

Geralt chuckled a little, aware that it was probably not an appropriate reaction in the situation but too disoriented to care.

Eskel gently pushed him back against cool pillows, and wrapped him up in warm wolf’s fur. Sweaty hair was brushed away from his forehead, and he felt Eskel’s large hands rubbing his back in calming circles. Geralt had barely even noticed how violently he was tossing about, but now all his muscles ached as he began to relax.

“Just rest, you’re safe now.”

Geralt wasn’t sure who was talking to him anymore. He wasn’t even sure where he was. Hadn’t he said goodbye to Jaskier already? Was it him who was talking so gently? He had no idea, and his head started pounding as soon as he tried to work it out. He just wanted to get some sleep. 

“Here, I’ve made you something to help you rest. Do you want it?”

Geralt nodded weakly. There weren’t many times he wanted to be drugged insensible, but now was definitely one of them. His whole body was tense and quivering, and he hurt. Someone, either Eskel or Jaskier, lifted his weak, aching neck and pouring something sweet tasting into his mouth, stroking his throat gently. He choked a bit, but managed to get it down without puking everywhere. The room began to spin more than it already was, and eventually it narrowed to a pinpoint and Geralt fell asleep to the feeling of a hand stroking his hair comfortingly.

\----

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

Geralt glared up at Eskel, hands fisting weakly in the furs. He was propped up the pillows of his bed, sipping tea with shaking hands and trying to avoid being forced to eat the broth and bread Eskel had brought to him.

“I was just trying to make it back before the first snowfall. You know the path is far too treacherous to climb when there’s snow falling.”

Eskel rolled his eyes and poked the bowl closer to Geralt, one hand surreptitiously clamping around the mug of tea when Geralt’s hand trembled a bit and threatened to spill it everywhere.

“I’ve known you since we were boys, Wolf. You’re going to have to work harder if you intend to lie to me.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Geralt said honestly, knitting his brows with frustration, “I was just tired. I didn’t have the energy to hunt, and everything felt too…quiet. Empty. Normally the emptiness of the mountains does me good. But something was off this year.”

“You’re so thick, you know that?”

Geralt cocked his head, resting his exhausted arm on the mattress. Eskel leaned over and took the mug from him and gestured at the broth. Geralt made a face, feeling a bit nauseous.

“You were lonely, you bastard. You just spent a whole year travelling with that bard, the one who wrote the song. I’m willing to bet he never shut up. And I’m also willing to bet you liked his company. When you parted ways, it was different again. I know you well enough to know you don’t cope well with sudden change. Or understanding your feelings.”

Geralt fixed his best glare on Eskel, which was difficult because his eyes were still a bit unfocused from a recently broken fever.

“I am not lonely.”

Eskel threw up his hands and pushed the food towards him insistently.

“Alright. Just something to think about, perhaps, while you’re resting. You’re not going to bounce back from this overnight, you know. It looks like you were starving yourself for weeks.”

Geralt picked up the spoon with a shaking hand and ate a bit of broth before his face paled and he pushed it away.

“If you value your furs remaining in their current condition, I suggest you stop trying to force feed me.”

Eskel shrugged and pulled the tray away, leaning back against the headboard next to the other Witcher. He moved close enough that their shoulder touched, and after a moment Geralt leaned his head down on his brother’s shoulder. They stayed like that for a while, and eventually Eskel looked over and found Geralt asleep, eyes closed peacefully for the first time since he had arrived at the keep.

“Just get some rest. You’ll be better in the morning.” In a rare moment of tenderness that he would only share with Geralt, Eskel smoothed the stray curly hairs out of his sweaty face. Loath to move from this position after seeing Geralt uncomfortable and twisting under the heat of a fever for so many days, Eskel eventually let his head droop onto the top of his fellow Witcher’s head, and curled around him to retain their heat. Geralt always spent the days after his fevers broke shivering with cold, so Eskel figured he might as well get a head start on keeping him warm. A small smile graced his scarred face. It was lonely on the Path without Geralt there with him.


	6. Monster

Jaskier was in his element. One leg propped up against a chair, an adoring audience at his feet. After months in the wilderness, he felt so invigorated by being able to play for a real audience again. Geralt and Roach, as ever, were unappreciative of the finer points of musicianship. Geralt’s critiques and comments usually involved grunting and confused looks when Jaskier tried to ask him a pointed question. The man had absolutely no ear for music. Playing for a crowd that actually interacted with him, fed off his energy, made him feel light and remade. It was almost akin to drunkenness. These villagers even knew some of his songs, and shouted out requests while raising their mugs and sloshing ale every which way. The air was hot and heavy, and the men were tired from a day working in the fields and completely willing to let the alcohol and music guide their night.

Part of Jaskier was sad Geralt wasn’t around to witness such a triumphant performance. Sometimes, on a particularly good night, Geralt would offer him a small compliment or a smile while he was playing. More than any praise from the patrons of the inn, Jaskier loved Geralt’s approval. Mostly because it was so rarely given that the bard knew it had to be sincere, and also because the Witcher had fast become one of his closest friends. In a profession where you bared your soul to the world on such a regular basis, Jaskier valued true friendship above all else. Geralt tempered his extreme vulnerability in the best way. He knew that as much as he wished the Witcher were here, though, Geralt would not have enjoyed it. Loud crowds grated at his delicate senses, and the stench of beer and vomit was rank in the inn. Geralt had set off some hours ago to hunt what the people thought was a Vodyanoy living near an abandoned mill house. Apparently, the water demon had been killing married men for weeks, shortly after which their wives would disappear; enslaved to the monster. Upon deducing what the creature probably was, Geralt had looked concerned. Even Jaskier knew that Vodyanoy were notoriously hard to kill; they could spend infinite amounts of time hiding in their lairs. The only way to kill one was to draw it into the open. While Geralt had not specified exactly how he planned on doing this, he had looked very grim when he had departed, and Jaskier had noticed an extra knife tucked into his belt. Trying not to worry, he continued his performance. Geralt had said he would be back that night, before the moon sunk below the hilltops and he lost his light. He had never failed to return before. But there was a first time for everything, and, as Geralt was so fond of reminding him, Witchers retired when they got slow and were killed.

It was much later on when Jaskier’s worry really started to increase. Most of the farmers had left the tavern, citing that they needed to return to their homes to rest before another hard day’s work. There were a few men collapsed drunkenly at the table, who a young barmaid was trying unsuccessfully to rouse. Jaskier watched as the barkeep came out from behind the counter and helped her drag them out into the street. Their alcohol-laden bodies thumped in the packed dirt outside. The moonlight was fast fading, and there was still no sign of the Witcher. Jaskier’s voice was shot, and he nursed a mug of water, tapping his fingers anxiously on the wooden table.

“Wondering when that Witcher of yours will be back, eh?”

Jaskier started and looked up, trying to conceal his blush when the barkeep called Geralt “his” Witcher. He never had been very subtle with his feelings, but he had hoped not to make it so obvious that any stranger in a bar could figure it out.

“He said he would be back when he lost the moonlight, even if he couldn’t kill the Vodyanoy. It’s dangerous to fight in the dark, even for him. And he’s never normally late. Do you know how far away the mill is from here? Could he just be walking back?”

The barkeep shrugged.

“Two, maybe three miles. If it wasn’t close to town, we wouldn’t have worried about hiring someone to kill the blasted thing.”

Jaskier dropped his head into his hands. Even if Geralt had decided to walk instead of riding Roach, he should have been back or nearly back by this point. The moonlight was lost; the valley shrouded in darkness.

“I’ll wait up, if you don’t mind. I can stay out of the way if you need to clean.”

The barkeep gestured openly to the room.

“After all the customers you brought in for me tonight, I’m more than happy to let you stay. Lyanna and I need to do some sweeping, and then we’ll be retiring, but we’ll leave a candle for you.”

Jaskier nodded gratefully and continued to let his head rest on his hands. Nervousness rolled in his gut and twisted into his chest, and every breath he took shuddered a bit. Geralt was never late. Not ever. He knew his limits well enough to return to safety as soon as he had lost his window for hunting a beast. And the window was most certainly lost by this point. Jaskier downed more water and continued tapping his feet and hands anxiously, watching the barkeep and the girl, who he presumed was the barkeep’s daughter, finish sweeping. Lyanna brought him over a candle with a sweet smile and set it on the table.

“There’s a water jug behind the bar. Feel free to help yourself…and I hope he’s alright. The Witcher, I mean. He gave me a good tip for your dinner last night, and told me he’d do everything to kill the Vodyanoy. You needn’t worry about overstaying your welcome here.”

Jaskier nodded an exhausted thank you and rested his head on his arms as Lyanna and her father went about extinguishing all the other lanterns in the inn proper. They shut the door gently, as though they were trying not to disturb him, and the young girl shot Jaskier one last concerned look over her shoulder before slipping out of sight. He tried to smile confidently back at her and failed miserably. The room was empty and dark, and Jaskier focused on the flickering flame of the single candle until he eventually fell asleep, head pillowed on his arms.

He mustn’t have rested for very long before a loud banging noise caused him to bolt upright, nearly jumping out of his skin. The doors to the in were pushed open, and there was Geralt, still standing, with what appeared to be a head slung over one shoulder.

“Geralt,” Jaskier began excitedly, “It’s been hours! Where have you been?”

He had been about to bound joyfully over to the Witcher when he took a stumbling step forward and Jaskier stopped in his tracks. He let the head drop onto the floor of the inn with a wet squelch, and then his knees buckled underneath him.

Jaskier always liked to imagine that whenever he experienced Geralt fainting firsthand, he would be there to gather the Witcher up tenderly in his arms and nurse him back to health. That was how he would write that it had happened had he been composing a ballad. Unfortunately, ballads and real life were a far cry from each other. Geralt’s knees hit the floor with a thud, at which point he pitched forwards face first, hitting the floor with a dull cracking sound that made Jaskier feel ill. Once again, he cursed himself for not having the lightening-quick reflexes of a Witcher. If it had been him that had been wounded, Geralt would have caught him long before he got anywhere near to the ground.

“Fuck, Geralt, can you hear me?”

Jaskier rolled the Witcher onto his back and winced guiltily when he saw the trickle of blood running out of Geralt’s nose. That definitely hadn’t been on his face when he had entered the inn, and Jaskier couldn’t help but feel responsible for his headlong dive into the floorboards. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he nodded a bit to let Jaskier know that he was still coherent enough to understand what was being said to him.

“Goddess, what happened to you? Where does it hurt?”

Geralt blinked open a very unfocused eye to give him a weak glare.

“Everywhere…’m lying on the floor, Jask,” he slurred, looking very disoriented and yet still managing to express how irritated he was.

“Yes, right, of course. Fuck. Let’s get you upstairs. Can you stand, just until we make it to the room? Then, I promise you can lie down for as long as you want. I can’t carry your heavy arse up the stairs on my own.”

Geralt nodded a little, but when he tried to get his arms underneath himself to get up, he winced and groaned, narrowly avoiding another unfortunate meeting between his face and the floor when Jaskier grabbed him at the last second.

“‘M shoulder.”

Jaskier didn’t have to look very far to see what was wrong. It was dangling from the socket, and there was a large, bloody cut at the top from which Jaskier saw something glistening and white. He turned away to keep from vomiting when he realized it was bone.

“Alright, don’t worry about lifting yourself up. I’ll manage. Just try to keep your feet under you while we go up the stairs, alright?”

Seeming relieved, Geralt managed to keep his balance relatively well while Jaskier slipped under his uninjured shoulder, grunting as he took almost all of the Witcher’s considerable weight. He had almost forgotten about the discarded Vodyanoy head that was currently oozing blood all over the floor of the inn, and grimaced. He would come back to deal with that later. Turning away, he half-dragged Geralt towards the stairs, thanking whatever Gods or Goddesses existed that they were only on the first floor. Already, Geralt was tripping over his own feet trying to keep up, clearly far too unbalanced to hold any weight or keep his feet underneath him. Jaskier ended up having to push Geralt up the stairs next to him, instructing his friend to keep a hand braced on the wall before forgetting that his right hand was currently unserviceable.

“You get yourself into the most bastardly difficult situations, you know that?” Jaskier grunted as he hauled him up the stairs, pausing at the top to take several deep breaths. Geralt slumped down onto the floor and rested his head on his knees, gasping and unresponsive. Blood was leaking down his arm at a frankly alarming rate, which spurred Jaskier back into action.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up a bit.”

He manhandled Geralt back onto his feet and mostly carried him the rest of the way down the hall to their room. Not for the first time, he was glad Geralt made him chop firewood and do other menial but strengthening tasks when they travelled. Several years ago, he never would have been able to bear the Witcher’s weight for such a considerable distance. As it was, just getting him down the hall left Jaskier panting embarrassingly hard.

When they finally made it back to the room, Geralt was shivering, hard. His teeth chattered together, and he looked absolutely miserable with his damp, sweaty hair framing a sickly pale face. His whole side was soaked in blood from the huge, grisly wound on his shoulder. Jaskier had no doubt that the fact that all this blood was smeared all over him instead of inside his body was the reason he was trembling so profusely.

“Come on, let’s get you settled in bed. Then you can try to warm up a bit while I clean up that shoulder.”

Geralt was unresponsive, just looking up at Jaskier miserably through half-lidded eyes, but Jaskier talked more to comfort himself anyways. Even on his best days, Geralt didn’t engage in conversation unless he wanted to, which was not very often. Although it had increased a bit in the years that they had known each other. As gently as possible, Jaskier stripped off as much of the Witcher’s clothing as he could without pulling at the blood-soaked wound and lowered Geralt onto the bed, and covered his trembling frame with all the furs he could find. Briefly, he built a hurried fire in the empty hearth. It crackled to life, and as the warmth spread through the room Geralt groaned in relief, curling into as tight a ball as he could on his uninjured side.

“Ah, ah, none of that quite yet. I don’t want you to bleed out while you’re asleep.”

Jaskier helped him roll back onto his back, and tried to prod as gently as he could at the wounded shoulder. Geralt still grimaced miserably, trying to roll over to hide it. The bard was tempted to roll his eyes. After all this time, Geralt was still so unwilling to show him any weakness. It was damnably stupid, and irritating to boot.

“You know, you can tell me if it hurts. It might actually mean I can help you better.”

Geralt took a moment, but eventually he cracked an eye and looked up at the hard. His vision was clearly unfocused, and every breath trembled a little in his chest. 

“Just...my shoulder,” he gasped out, “Dislocated. Bleeding.” 

“Yes, I can see that. Your eyes aren't focusing very well, though. Do you have a concussion or is it blood loss?” 

Geralt gave him a small affirmative nod for the second one, which made Jaskier sigh with relief. Head injuries were frightening, and there was very little he could do to help the Witcher if he had one. 

“Alright, I'm going to get your shoulder back in joint and then I'll stitch closed the wound. Do you want anything for the pain while I'm doing this? I'd feel better if you were asleep.”

“No...makes my mind fuzzy.”

Jaskier didn't bother wasting his time by telling Geralt that his mind was clearly already fuzzy. Arguing with an injured man didn't really seem like a fair fight, and Jaskier had seen Geralt endure far worse. Besides, he knew of his friend’s enduring hatred for any drug that clouded his senses. Geralt had a constant need to be on alert, be ready to fight at a moment's notice even when he was completely incapacitated. At first, Jaskier had thought this was absurd. But as he became better acquainted with the solitary lifestyle of a Witcher, he began to understand. An insensible Witcher was usually a dead one. 

“Alright,” Jaskier took a deep, bracing breath and tried not to show the way his hands were trembling, “But you can’t move while I’m in the middle of doing this, understand? Or you may end up with an arm that doesn’t work anymore.”

“I know what happens when you reset a dislocated shoulder,” Geralt growled, face pale and tense from the pain, “And I’m losing a lot of blood. Get on with it before I pass out.”

Jaskier gulped and steeled himself. He hated this part. There was nothing in the world that made him ache more than having to cause Geralt harm. It made him feel like a monster. As gently as possible, he helped Geralt close his hand into a fist and put his arm at a right angle with his body, trying to pretend he didn’t notice the way the Witcher’s eyes squeezed shut at the simple motion. Then, as quickly as he could, he pushed the fist in towards Geralt’s body. There was a sickly cracking noise, and a tense groan from between tightly clenched teeth. Geralt was trembling under his grasp, his entire body tense and shivering. His heels were digging into the bed.

“Shh, I’m done the worst of it now. I just need to stitch this cut shut, and then you can rest, I promise.”

Geralt blinked up at him, simultaneously exhausted and on high alert, adrenaline probably still coursing through him from the fight. His eyes kept sliding shut and rolling back into his head, only for him to start violently and reopen them again. He was pale and shivering from blood loss, face pinched with discomfort, cheeks sunken in in a way that made him look very ill. Jaskier threaded the needle with shaky hands, praying that the edges of the wound weren’t too ragged. He didn’t want to take any longer stitching than absolutely necessary; the Witcher was clearly exhausted.

Thankfully, once he had found the edges of the injury amidst all the blood, he discovered it would not be too difficult to close. There was a fragment of the bone which had been dislodged, though.

“I just need to take something out before I stitch this shut,” Jaskier gulped, not sure if it was better to let Geralt know now that he was about to cause him an extraordinary amount of pain, “Just try to stay still, please. You’ll be able to sleep soon, I promise. You’re doing so well.”

Normally, Jaskier would never have allowed himself to say such things to Geralt, but the man was too far gone to even glare at him. The bard hoped he found it comforting, at least on a subconscious level. Once, when he had been ill, Geralt had held him close to his chest and told him to listen to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. They had fallen asleep that way, and Jaskier could remember Geralt snuggling into his chest the following morning. He was a man long bereft of any physical or emotional comfort, though he rarely let it show.

Grimacing, Jaskier clenched his pointer finger and thumb around the shard of bone, feeling relieved that it had at least come completely detached. He did not fancy cutting the remaining part away from Geralt’s shoulder. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled it out.

Geralt tensed up with a great, heaving breath. His eyes rolled back in his head and Jaskier prayed that he would lose consciousness. But a moment later, his eyes rolled back again, lids at half mast, pupils unfocused. His mouth was open, but he wasn’t making any sounds anymore. His hands were too weak to clench at the sheets anymore. They fisted weakly at his sides.

“Oh, Geralt, I’m so sorry. I know this hurts. You’ll be all better soon. I’m going to give you something for the pain. It doesn’t matter what you say, if you stay this way much longer I’m not sure the pain isn’t going to kill you.”

The Witcher didn’t even flinch when Jaskier delivered this news. The bard filled a cup with some water and a little bit of lavender and poppy’s milk, and lifted it to his friend’s lips. Geralt coughed and spluttered weakly, most of the water dripping down his chin. He managed to swallow a bit though, and barely a few moments later his eyes began to go unfocused and hazy, breaths slowing.

“There you are. Just go to sleep, love. It’ll be better when you wake up, I promise.”

Geralt stayed tense and trembling for several minutes longer, fighting sleep to the last. Jaskier stroked his sweaty hair out of his face until he finally relaxed into a state that was better described as a dead faint than sleep. Jaskier picked up his already threaded needle, and stitching the wound shut neatly over the bone, wiping away an alarming amount of blood as he did so. Every once in a while, Geralt would shift, brows creased in pain, but he remained thoroughly passed out for the remainder of the ordeal, much to Jaskier’s relief.

When he was done, the bard wrapped a clean bandage around Geralt’s shoulder, and folded the remainder of their bandages into a sling, bandaging the Witcher’s whole arm tightly to the side of his body. Placing a hand gently on Geralt’s forehead, Jaskier reaffirmed happily that he was not running a fever. He pulled the blankets up, noting again with some worry that Geralt’s skin was far too pale, although he supposed he couldn’t expect anything better after the night he had had.

Sighing exhaustedly, Jaskier settled down on the floor by the fire. He didn’t want to disturb Geralt any more than he already had tonight.

\----

The following morning dawned crisp and clear, and there was a pleasant smell that pervaded the air, and even found its way into the inn. Jaskier breathed it in and stretched luxuriously, wondering why he still felt so tired. Clearly, it had been a late night performing.

Then, he rolled over, and the wooden planks from the floor dug into his spine, and he remembered why he was lying on the floor. Geralt. The damnable hunt he had been on last night. His shoulder.

Jaskier sat bolt upright and blinked away the blue spots that suddenly flashed before his eyes. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled over to the bed, blinking owlishly in the morning light. Geralt was clearly awake; his eyes were squeezed shut and outlined by dark circles that stood in contrast with his horrifically pale skin. The bard guessed that Geralt mustn’t have had very much sleep after he awoke from his drug-induced rest.

“You stupid, stubborn bastard. Why didn’t you wake me as soon as you woke up. You didn’t have to lie there in misery for hours, you know.”

Geralt blinked his eyes open slowly, focusing them on a point somewhere above Jaskier’s head. He looked so groggy and tired Jaskier almost felt badly for talking to him at all.

“Do you want something to put you back to sleep?” Jaskier asked a bit more gently, pity spiking in his stomach.

Geralt seemed to think for a moment before shaking his head. The motion was barely there, and Jaskier wondered if he had underestimated how much blood the Witcher had lost. He was dreadfully weak.

“Alright, well, if you’re going to force yourself to stay awake and in pain, then you at least need to drink some water. You’ve lost so much blood, you should do the bare minimum to help it replenish.”

Jaskier turned and filled the same mug he had used last night. He debated over just filling it with milk of the poppy anyways, but in the end he came to the conclusion that he valued Geralt’s hard-won trust far too much to do such a thing. Turning, he lifted Geralt’s head enough to sip at the water, wincing when he choked a bit again.

“Just try to swallow it, you’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Geralt sagged against him and closed his eyes again. He was trembling all over, and his breathing was choppy and strained. Jaskier curled up next to him on the bed and rubbed a gentle hand over the Witcher’s shaking chest, moving in slow circles. Eventually, his breathing calmed a bit, although he didn’t stop shaking. 

\----

The next morning, Geralt blinked his eyes open sluggishly. Light streamed in through an open window, making gentle lines in the dusty air. There was a weight on his chest, and something tight and restrictive wrapped around his right shoulder. His head also ached horribly, and he felt weak. Every breath took more effort than he had ever noticed it doing before.

Slowly, he tried shifting his weight a bit. It took far too much effort, though, and his shoulder hurt horrendously. Eventually, he settled back, trying to get himself comfortable in bed and failing miserably. Every time he shifted it only seemed to make matters worse. However, the weight on his lefthand side eventually shifted, and Geralt turned his bleary eyes to find himself looking directly into Jaskier’s sleep-filled ones.

“Fuck, Jaskier. I’m sorry.” Geralt’s voice was no more than a hoarse whisper, and he winced a bit. He hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding so weak and raspy. The bard would probably pounce on the sign of weakness as a reason to stay and rest, when all Geralt wanted to do was pretend like the whole situation had never happened and move on. He was a sorry excuse for a Witcher, barely able to complete a contract without coming back grievously wounded. Not anywhere near the Witcher that Jaskier sung about with such reverence. Geralt wasn’t deserving of those ballads, nor of the love that came with them.

Jaskier blinked down at him, seemingly taking a moment to get his bearings about him. Then, his brows creased in concern and he brushed a stray bit of greasy, sweaty silver hair out of Geralt’s line of vision. The Witcher had to admit it felt nice. Jaskier’s hand was cool and gentle, and the hair had been poking him in the eye for some time. His hands were too damnably weak to brush it away himself.

“Shit, Geralt. Give a man some warning before you wake him from a peaceful slumber.”

Geralt looked away, feeling more than guilty enough already. Seeing his deep regret, Jaskier quickly changed tack.

“Only joking. I’ve been worried for you, that’s all. You lost a lot of blood, and you slept so deeply there were a few times I had to check for a pulse. How are you feeling this morning?”

“Tired. Sick. Weak.” Geralt decided not to add ashamed to the list. He knew it would only bring on more questions that he didn’t have the energy or the mental capacity to answer at the moment.

The bard nodded sympathetically, which made Geralt’s stomach twinge painfully. He didn’t need sympathy. That was for people who deserved it.

“I’ll get you some tea, yes? And then you can spend the day sleeping and getting better again. We don’t have anywhere we need to be for a while, and I can tell you’re probably feeling worse than you’re letting on. Spending a day comfortable in bed is the least we can do for you. Is there anything I can get you? Should we change out your bandages, or are they alright for now?”

Geralt wanted to argue. He really did. Every fibre of his being told him no, that this was wrong, that he needed to get back on the Path before he got in over his head. But he was weak from blood loss, and his shoulder hurt with the telltale pulling pain of new stitches. He doubted he would be able to mount Roach at the moment, let alone get her going down the road to the next town. And Jaskier’s offer was so tempting. Just this once, Geralt wanted to rest, and sleep, and heal in the time that his body needed instead of the pure necessity of needing to keep going, keep hunting and killing.

“Water,” he sighed tiredly, sinking back into the pillows with a groan he hoped didn’t sound too weak and pathetic, “And if have the time, these bandages are itching and bloody.”

Geralt almost held his breath, waiting for Jaskier to respond. Part of him expected the bard to retract all previous offers once he realized it meant getting his hands dirty. But, to his surprise, the bard pulled up a stool and handed him a cup of water, wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s own to steady the shaking in his hand with no comment.

“Geralt, my dear. I’ve nothing to do but stay here with you and keep you comfortable. And I know you’d do the same, were our roles switched.”

The Witcher was too tired to be surprised, although he was sure had he been a bit more lucid he would have allowed himself a moment of shock. Or perhaps not. Somehow, he thought that in a coherent state he knew Jaskier well enough to know that the bard would have stayed by his side no matter what. In any case, he was too tired to pursue the line of thought any further at the moment. He closed his eyes to ward against the dizziness as best he could, even though he still felt as though he were lazily spinning. Jaskier’s gentle hands trying to remove his bandages without hurting him were grounding. They kept Geralt from feeling as though he were spinning far, far away, from feeling so nauseous he was sure he would roll over and vomit everywhere.

He barely even noticed when Jaskier finished tying new bandages around his aching shoulder. Ever so slowly, he drifted into an uneasy, fitful sleep, knowing that his bard would never leave him alone in such a state. 

Once the Witcher had fallen asleep, Jaskier gently ran his hand over the Witcher’s closed eyes, wiping some sticky sweat from his face. Then, he curled back up on the stool with his head resting next to Geralt’s, prepared to wait out the day together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was quite a few days in the making, so I hope it’s coherent and works well together! I’m on vacation at the moment, so the last chapter of this work isn’t quite done yet. It may be a couple days before I publish it, but I PROMISE it’s coming within the next few days! 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments make my whole entire day! Only if you’re in the mood, though! Thank you, as always, for reading ❤️


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! I'm so sorry this has taken me so long to get this chapter to you. I've had it written for a while, but I was on a bouldering trip up in Northern Canada and the cellular connection was pretty spotty, so this is the first chance I've had to post. In other news, I broke my ankle on the trip which (depending on how you see it) is good news because it's given me lots of time to write! I have a huge, world building story headed your way! As well as a little sickfic because I'm weak for those.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and your patience, feel free to let me know what you think! I always really appreciate your feedback.

It was so dark. The kind of dark that enveloped a person and muffled their senses, making them feel as though they were wrapped in a dark velvet blanket. There was also the cold. A damp, aching kind of cold that had him trembling in whatever restraints they had used to tie him down. Although, he was a bit grateful for those, though he never would have admitted it out loud. They kept him from shaking so badly that he hurt himself worse. Though, at this point, Geralt wasn’t sure how much worse it could get. Every inch of him ached and pinched and trembled uncontrollably. He hadn’t known it was possible to endure this much pain. If he had been human, he probably would have died a long time ago. But, he had to keep reminding himself as he tried to keep from crying out as the darkness threatened to smother him, he was no longer human. He was something different. Not greater or lesser. Just other. The thought made him tremble all the harder.

Time was incalculable down here. Geralt supposed it was made that way on purpose. It took far longer to go mad if you didn’t know how long you had been kept in the dark for. And for someone in his state, staying in the dark was nigh on essential. Geralt wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to handle the light again. Even in this dark, his eyes twinged uncomfortably, the ocular nerves straining as his gaze flitted about fitfully. Despite the promise of light and more pain and the realization that he was one of a few survivors, Geralt ached to be free. To go rejoin his brothers. Eskel had survived his own mutations, Geralt knew that much. Someone had told him, a small mercy before they put him through extra cruelties, because he was strong enough to be an experiment. Because he had no power over his life or his destiny anymore. Geralt ached for Eskel. His brother would speak to him and be kind to him, even now. If there was one small mercy in the world, it was that Eskel had been spared additional trials. It made Geralt sigh with relief, even though his lungs burned and every breath that passed through his throat set it on fire. He was fairly sure he had screamed himself raw, but he couldn’t remember. Everything after the mage had administered the hallucinogenic drugs was a bit of a blur.

Suddenly, Geralt’s ears thrummed. In the distance, there were footsteps coming down stone stairs. He couldn’t tell how far away they were, or whose feet they belonged to. Mutations, as Vesemir had informed Geralt by way of a final farewell, took years to become accustomed to. And it had probably been only days since Geralt had been human. However, hope perked up in his stomach. If someone was coming to get him, it would mean perhaps he would be allowed to see Eskel. If he could just see his brother, he knew he would feel worlds better. Geralt could handle pain on his own. But Eskel was always better at easing it.

Whoever came in entered by way of a door that was to Geralt’s back, probably deliberately. They tied something soft around his eyes, presumably to keep the light out, and then unbuckled the restraints around his arms and legs. This was all done ever so gently; the person even set the chains down softly so they wouldn’t clank and cause Geralt’s newly sensitive hearing any discomfort. He tried to flex his hands and feet, but found he was weak and numb.

“Easy, now,” a voice he recognized said softly, using barely more than a whisper, “You’ve lost a lot of blood. We’ll get you up to your room, and then you can rest and recover your strength.”

Geralt wanted to ask for Eskel. He knew he recognized the person speaking to him now, but it was not his brother. But when he opened his mouth, he tasted the coppery tang of blood. His throat was absolutely destroyed. Even the light touch of air made him feel like it was being ripped from his neck. Wincing, he swallowed convulsively and focused on controlling the spastic movements of his arms and legs as the person lifted him gently under the arms and around his neck. It hurt terribly. Geralt tried not to black out. Weakness was looked down on here, especially in a Witcher who had just survived a second round of mutations.

He failed. Everything was spinning, and he was so dizzy and in so much pain. His head lolled weakly on the arms of whoever was carrying him, and he drifted far, far away.

\----

When Geralt woke next, the soft blindfold was still tied around his eyes, but he could see dusty light filtering through the tiny holes in the weave. It was enough to make his eyes burn, and he squeezed them shut with a moan, which came out more as a soft exhale. His throat was still destroyed beyond repair.

There was a starting motion next to him, the telltale sign of someone rousing, and then Geralt felt a familiar hand in his. Eskel.

He reached for his brother, feeling out the contours of his face with shaking arms weakened from pints of lost blood. He smelled his new scent, one that was similar, but not quite the same as the scent he remembered Eskel having before their Trials. There was a new roughness on his brother’s face, too, and something damp. It took Geralt a moment to realize they were tears. He felt Eskel’s cheeks twitching a bit under his grasp. Weakened, he allowed his arm to fall back to the mattress. Eskel caught it and lowered it gently down. Something warm was pulled up to Geralt’s shoulders.

“Can I get you anything?” The voice was soft, considerate.

Geralt tried nodding his head, desperately wanting water, but he was far too weak. The muscles strained to no avail, and his brows creased, which only served to increase the pounding ache in his head. Everything was so overwhelming. He wanted to sleep, wanted someone to knock him unconscious. And he wanted Eskel to stay by his side.

Luckily, his brother was well aware of what his needs might be, even though his trembling muscles and ruined vocal cords were unable to express them outright. A gentle hand brought a stoneware cup to his lips, and stroked his throat softly when he struggled to swallow.

“There you are,” Eskel encouraged gently, running his hands through Geralt’s sweaty hair, “There’s laudanum in the water. Just try to get some rest.”

Everything was blurring and Geralt felt so sick and dizzy. His senses were overwhelming him with an amount of information that was impossible for his brain to process. He turned his head towards Eskel, whimpering. Fuck mutations. Fuck the bastards who had done this to him.

Geralt didn’t even realize Eskel had said those words aloud. Had he been lucid and strong, he would have clapped his hand over his brother’s mouth before he could say such dangerous things. Kaer Morhen Witchers would never betray their own, but the Keep was full of mages as well. The mages who had wanted to attempt more mutations. And their ears were everywhere. But he was too tired; he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. All his senses blurred together into an overwhelming mess.

And then, with Eskel’s hand clasped in his own shaking one, Geralt finally fell into a fitful rest.


End file.
